A Stranger from the East
by Ravenya03
Summary: This is an on-going fic about Djaq, and her first few weeks among the outlaws in Sherwood Forest: how she fits in, how she copes with her new situation, and how she forms a bond with Will and Allan, resulting in the famous OT3.
1. First Impressions

_This is the first chapter of what will be an on-going fic about Djaq and her first few weeks among the outlaws. It's set immediately after "Turk Flu", and although this first chapter is almost entirely introspective, there IS an actual plot in the works - I just needed to get her initial state of mind across first._

_My ultimate goal is to give Djaq some credit (easily the most ignored character_ _on the show) and reconcile some of the huge leaps in character "development" that poor Anjali had to cope with. It's also a chance to play with my beloved OT3 and explore how the three of them got to know each other (there's not much of that here, but it's coming - oh boy, is it coming!)_

_You can expect lots of Will/Djaq/Allan interaction, a mystery from Djaq's past, and her entire story in flashback, starting from her girlhood, through the invasion of the Crusadors, all the way up to her enslavement. The flashbacks are pretty grim, but hopefully I've managed to compensate by a reasonably light-hearted story concerning the OT3._

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**Chapter One: First Impressions**

She was dreaming of her mother, the first dream she'd ever had since loosing her, and it was so vivid she could almost feel the fine teeth of the comb through her hair as Fatima sang softly in her ear. It was her lullaby, the one that had been crooned to her throughout her girlhood, and as she relaxed into the sound her dream conjured up the whispered lessons passed from mother to daughter. How to speak to a man with only her eyes flickering above the darkness of her veil, how to move with grace across a room when shrouded in layers of cloth, how to dance her fingers across cups and plates when serving food to the men-folk – all done with the sole intention to captivate a suitable husband.

"Men are intrigued by what they cannot see," her mother would tell her. "Their imaginations are your greatest tool. It is your task to draw their attention, and let their minds do the rest."

By the time she was twelve, Safiyah knew every trick known to womankind: how to lift her eyes beseechingly, how to expose the inside of her wrist as she poured beverages, how to tilt her head so that her hair swayed across her shoulders. It all bored her to distraction, and she could not help but feel silly when forced into the role of hostess (especially with Djaq smirking in the corner, knowing full well that her acquired grace did not come either naturally _or_ comfortably) but these afternoons with Fatima in the women's quarters made it all worthwhile. Giving herself over to her mother's preening, Safiyah had quashed the voice of her internal mind that insisted on mocking her for enjoying this feminine pampering, and let Fatima fuss over her.

Now, in the dream, she could smell the sweet spiciness of her mother's perfume, feel her hands straightening her posture, her fingers stroking down her long dark hair, hearing her husky voice telling her that if she could make a man want her, she could make him do anything she pleased.

Abruptly, the dream dissolved and she awoke, so swiftly that had to resist the urge to grasp the space before her in the attempt to pull it back. In the space of a moment, the warmth of her mother's hands were gone, replaced by the cold air of this sunless country. She lay there, too numb with shock to even react to the pain of her mother's touch existing only in her mind.

Gradually, the reality of her life soaked into her: they were all gone, dead and buried months ago, and she had been reduced to chattel, informed by the loathsome Brooker that she was on her way to work the iron mines in a place called Nottingham. The idea of her using any of her mother's coquettish charms now would be laughable if the consequences weren't so horrifying to contemplate.

With every ounce of her willpower, she pushed herself up into the sitting position. She had trained herself to awake in the hour before dawn – it was the only safe time to use the privy, but as she blearily opened her eyes, she was struck by confusion. Had she shrunk during the night? For the bars of her cage now loomed over her enormously, as though they'd conspired together during the night to grow and thicken in order to assure her once and for all that she'd never again be free.

But no…the surrounding giants weren't metal bars at all, but trees…trees the likes of which she'd never seen before in her own country. Suddenly the events of yesterday crystallized in her mind…the men who had freed her…the fire in the mines…Robin of Locksley…

It had all happened so quickly and for most of it she'd been as edgy as a wild animal verging on the brink of panic.

_I wasn't very polite to them,_ she thought ruefully, remembering the brisk, accusatory attitude she'd displayed. Still, given the circumstances, she'd had little choice but to be antagonistic – and how was she to know that these men were sincere in their attempt to free her and her fellow prisoners? She'd certainly never heard of Englishmen striving to help Saracens.

The moment the scruffy, blue-eyed youth had thrown back the canvas covering the cage, she'd weighed up the possibilities in her mind, feeling closer to escape than she ever had before. It was to those blue eyes that she'd first addressed herself as Djaq, saying her brother's name for the first time since his death, before raking her own dark eyes over what she'd supposed were highwaymen.

Within a few minutes, they'd all had her completely baffled – there were five of them, ranging from the superstitious to the enlightened, the simple-minded to the quick-witted, the cheerful to the surly. How on earth had this motley group of men come together as a unified gang? Having always prided herself on reading people, their squabbling team-work had bewildered and unnerved her, almost as much as it had impressed her once she'd seen it in action.

Cursing herself each time she lost an opportunity to use their actions to her own advantage, she had ultimately found herself standing by passively as Robin's plan had gone ahead without a hitch.

She'd felt so useless throughout the entire operation (not to mention ashamed that members of a primitive culture had saved her when she should have been more than capable of doing it herself) that she had jumped at the chance to repay them, first in lighting a fire for the lanky youth, and then in saving the large man when he'd tumbled from view down one of the mine shafts.

It was in the moment when she'd been struggling under his burly arm, lugging the semi-conscious man toward the forest alongside the younger man who'd pretended to be dying of the "Turk Flu", that she'd noticed her fellow countrymen fleeing the scene in the opposite direction. They'd abandoned her.

Along with the anguish, she'd felt an odd sense of relief. Confined in that dreadful cage with them, she'd been quick to realize that they posed the greater danger should her secret be exposed. Had it been discovered she was a woman, Brooker was too pragmatic to do anything about it himself – at best he would have left her to the mines, at worst he would have sold her to the nearest brothel. But the others – had they known they'd been travelling with a woman all that time – a woman with her face exposed and her body wrapped in boy's clothes...

She shuddered to think of the punishment they would have inflicted upon her had they ever found out, and as much as she hated to admit it, she realized quickly that she would be safer with these English outlaws than with her own people.

Her survival instinct had kicked in, and feeling bewildered among trees that were so tall she could barely see their tips, she found herself trailing the men to their campsite, and hiding herself away until she'd figured out what to do next.

She'd watched as the trickster had finally succumbed to the black root and had to be tied to the nearest tree by the big man – whilst the one called "Much" (such bizarre names the English gave themselves) alternated between laughing at him and moaning about food. Restlessly, she'd paced the forest, wondering how to best approach them.

She'd heard the sounds of shuffling in the forest, and uncovered a trap that had neatly captured two rabbits. Knowing men would hardly turn down the offer of food (and ignoring the fact that it was probably one of their own traps) she'd made short work of the animals, and bided her time until Robin returned.

_How would Djaq do this?_ she asked herself.

She knew what Safiyah would do, and considered how easy it would be to instigate her mother's tactics in charming food, shelter and protection from a group of men who seemed prone to heroism and chivalry. But that was out of the question, for more than the obvious reason. She was Djaq now, and so it was to cheerful, mischievous Djaq that she must look for her answer.

And so when the opportunity had arisen, she'd played upon Much's proclamations concerning God's will, and used her precious lens to light a fire right under his nose before following up with the rabbits.

Feigning confidence and a devil-may-care attitude that would have made her brother proud, she'd hidden her panic when the dark-haired youth had suddenly revealed her secret, and Robin's eyes had run over her in amusement whilst the others gaped in astonishment. But the moment had passed without incident, they had agreed she could stay, and the evening had quickly drifted into night.

So there was no question that it was among these men that she would be safe. Safe among strangers, miles from home, in a country that was at war with her own. How strange life was.

Lying on the hard ground, she let the memories of yesterday drift over her as she pondered her next move. She was accepted, for now, into this group of outlaws. But her position here was far from secure. She sat up properly and gazed at the slumbering forms of her newfound companions in the growing light of dawn.

Last night, she'd observed them carefully, trying to gauge their thoughts concerning her. Robin had seemed all friendly indulgence, enjoying the chance to show off by speaking to her in stilting Arabic with pronunciation she'd fought not to cringe at. The one called John seemed a little sceptical, probably thinking she'd end up being a nuisance, a distraction, or both. Much had seemed nonplussed, though awkwardly conscious of that the fact that a woman was now in their midst. Hardly the most favourable first impressions she could have wished for, but she could work on them.

It was the other two that had her worried – the dark-haired youth and the blue-eyed man with the strange hair. Will and Allan. They were harder to read.

Will was almost completely silent, and had made a pointed effort throughout the evening _not_ to look at her, and Allan…well, he had been twitching and retching uncontrollably under the effect of the black root for hours before she took pity on him and brewed him a sleeping draught out of the identifiable herbs that she'd found in Much's cooking pouch and the forest floor. He'd jerked his head away at first, but after Robin had pointed out that it was hardly going to make him feel any _worse_, he'd hesitantly let her pour the concoction down his throat.

Within minutes he'd slumped down into unconsciousness, and Much had – rather reluctantly, or so it seemed – cut him loose. It had been Will who'd dragged the sleeping figure to his bunk and tucked a rolled up blanket under his head, at which point she'd wondered if the two of them were brothers. Certainly they looked different, but things such as family resemblance could work differently for Englishmen. Her ignorance as to the situation made her uneasy, as hers was a mind that liked to have all the information possible at its disposal, and currently both of them existed outside her immediate understanding.

Even more troubling was the possibility that they didn't like her very much. Will had clearly been afraid of the Saracens on first seeing her, hesitant to even pass her a water flask through the bars of her prison, and she wasn't entirely sure how much he'd seen when he'd come across her bathing in the woods, or what he planned to do about it. And she hadn't protected her body all this time only to be thwarted by a teenager who was entirely too quiet at creeping about in forests.

Allan had been even less promising – scoffing at her claims that she had learnt the skills of a physician from her father, incredulously accusing her of wanting payment, and darkly muttering that her hastily-brewed blend of silver and acid was witchcraft. She had decided just before falling asleep last night that her best option was to keep her distance from both of them.

That plan seemed just as sensible now as it did then, and she told herself that she would follow through on it as she slowly raised herself up from the ground, revelling in the sense of the open space that surrounded her. No more shackles, no more chains, no more bars. After being confined for so many months, the freedom was a little dizzying, and not simply the freedom of being able to go where she pleased. Freedom came with the absence of fear, and now there was no more hiding every aspect of her identity, no more nights of paranoid half-sleep, no more having to control and stifle and dread every internal motion her body had been designed to make.

In the innermost part of her mind, so deep, even she herself was only vaguely aware of it, there was pitiful joy in the prospect of no longer being afraid to follow nature's course. Somewhere between Acre and Sherwood, Safiyah had lost the greater part of herself, replacing it with fear and hate and despair and the echo of her dead brother. Now, in this forest, among these men, she would find herself again – starting with her dignity.

_I'll still have to be careful though,_ she told herself as she hunted through the trees for a suitable place to relieve herself. She knew that it would take some effort to prove herself, and was aware that the novelty of her presence could only sustain her place among them for a limited period of time before she was regarded simply as an extra mouth to feed. What she needed to do now was thus clear: as she was not here to cook food or warm beds, her purpose in life would be to make herself utterly indispensable to these men. As Djaq.

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_Next chapter: Djaq tries to make herself at home among the manly world of the outlaws._


	2. The Sword

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Here's chapter two: which is actually HALF of what I thought chapter two was going to be, as this is shaping up to be much longer than I thought it would be! Again, there's a lot of introductory stuff going on, but there's a story coming, I promise - at the moment I'm just trying to piece together some of Djaq's possessions and second-impressions of the outlaws.

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**Chapter Two: The Sword**

It was not long after she had returned from the trees that the other outlaws roused themselves, and Djaq watched with mixed feelings of nervousness and anticipation as what she assumed was a typical morning in the forest began. Robin was up first, wide-awake instantly and springing about the campsite like a large, energetic cat.

She approached him quickly as the others stirred, not wanting to draw too much attention to what she needed to ask of him.

"Morning Djaq," he said as she neared. "How did you sl-"

"I will need a weapon."

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged indifferently. "Naturally. What did you have in mind?"

She blinked, a tad surprised. She hadn't expected it to be that easy.

Feeling a little guilty for acting so brisk, she adopted a slightly friendlier tone.

"I know how to handle a sword," she told him.

"Alright. Follow me."

As she scampered a little in order to keep up with his long strides through the forest, she considered the possibility that he wasn't taking her seriously. He still had that semi-indulgent look on his face; the one that suggested he was letting her stay among the outlaws as a special treat he was magnanimous enough to bestow upon her.

But she put her fears to rest as he stopped in front of a tree – one that looked no different from the hundred of others that surrounded her – and dripped his hand into what she realised was a concealed hollow. Glancing over his shoulder, she noticed that the natural hollow of the tree had been deepened and widened by tools, leaving a cylinder shaped cavity in the tree, packed full of weapons. With a glance in her direction, Robin swiftly drew out an astonishing array of artillery and laid them at her feet: bows, quivers, knives, daggers, and three swords of varying sizes and shapes, including – to her astonishment – a curved scimitar.

"We move around a lot, my gang and I," he said. "We don't always know when we'll have to abandon a campsite suddenly, or when we'll be caught unarmed. So we have stashes like this all over the forest."

In his tone, there was a trace of warning, of an unspoken question: _are you prepared for this?_ She answered by leaning over to examine the possibilities.

Naturally, the first sword she picked up was the curved Saracen blade, but almost immediately she had to discard it. It was far too heavy for her. She tried a smaller short-sword instead, balancing it in her palm. It was still heavier than she was used to, but the hilt fit snugly in her palm. As the morning sun broke through the canopy, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the blade, and she was struck by the comparison. The blade was short, stocky and grimy, much like the unrecognisable figure gazing back at her from its metallic sheen.

She sliced it through the air with the practiced movements learnt from her brother, her body suddenly recalling the secret lessons in the heat of the hidden courtyard, the training that had to be kept hidden from even their liberally-minded father. Having learnt from her clumsy brother – to whom fighting had come as naturally as her feminine graces had come to her – there was nothing even remotely graceful or fluid about her battle posture. Djaq had favoured force over style, aggressive action against defensive manoeuvres. He'd always been the first to break a stalemate, telling Safiyah that his best bet was to hack the sword through the air, make a lot of noise, and hope his enemy was even less skilled than he was. Despite her recognition that his technique was faulty, as her only teacher, she'd had little choice but to adopt his traits for her own, tempering them with her own acquired sense of balance and alertness.

"This one," she said firmly, and after Robin nodded his acquiescence, she helped him gather up the rest of the weapons.

"Ingenious," she said, as they stacked them back into their hidey-hole, recalling her mother's sound advice: that no man would begrudge a compliment on their own cleverness. Robin gave a bashful shrug. "Will's idea. He's the one who carved out all the trees as well."

She held the blade before her as they returned to camp, feeling defiance at her jailers coursing through her. Her intellect told her it was crude to favour the weight of a sword in her hand over the internal prowess of her mind and its scientific knowledge, but instinct told her differently. With a weapon in her hand, she was no longer helpless, no longer that weak and frightened little slave…the property of someone else…

_Never again,_ she swore to herself as they returned to camp, holding the sword out before her in one hand so as to let her wrist strengthen under the new weight.

She was startled from her concentration at the sound of an odd yelp. She looked up to see Much gaping at her, his eyes nervously flickering from her face to the sword in her hand.

"Do you…are you…do you known how to use that?" he spluttered.

Feeling the eyes of every man upon her, a sharp retort rose to her lips, before an idea sprang to mind: a sure-fire way to win some degree of the respect she needed – if she could pull it off.

"Care to test me?" she asked, mimicking her brother's teasing air, the tone of voice that had never failed to goad Safiyah into taking up whatever challenge Djaq had posed to her.

He looked affronted.

"I will not fight a woman!" he gasped. She pushed down another surge of anger and frustration – if she didn't get rid of this "woman" label quickly, she would never be treated as an equal, either in combat or in the domesticity of the campsite.

"Not afraid are you?" she said archly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Robin grin, and John – sharpening a knife on a fallen log – sit up a little straighter.

"Yeah, Much – not afraid are you?" came a voice from above. She turned to see Allan watching from a high perch of rock that jutted out over the site, his face openly mocking the scandalised-looking man. Below him, in the shadow of a tree, stood Will, who was silently whittling the pointed head of an arrow.

She turned back to Much. Despite feeling a little guilty for taunting him, she couldn't help but appreciate any support that would goad him into fighting her. Now looking a little angry himself, Much marched away in a huff. Her heart sank, but then lifted, and soon began to thud nervously when he emerged with his own sword in hand.

"Frightened of a woman," she heard him mutter indignantly under his breath as he approached and took a fighting stance in front of her. Taking a deep breath and realizing that there was a chance that this may well end badly for her (after all, she'd never seen him fight) she took her own preferred battle stance: feet planted firmly apart, sword gripped in both hands, blade gently tilted toward her opponent, its tip level with her eyes. For a few seconds they simply stood looking at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move, hearing the shuffling of the others around the camp as they pretended to act busy with chores.

She knew full well that they were all watching out the corner of their eyes, and as the stalemate stretched on to a ridiculous degree and sweat began to drip down the side of Much's face, she took her brother's impatience for her own and gently tapped her sword against his.

He reacted with a panicked yell that nearly scared the wits out of her, and began slashing at her with such fervour that she was immediately forced to backtrack on the defensive. Fighting to regain her footing, she managed to duck out of what would have been a particularly painful hack at her torso, and get the advantage with an abrupt sidestep. As he swivelled to follow her movement, she threw her weight down upon her sword, and through it, onto his, pinning it flat against his side. The tactic worked, but in the next fatal moment, she froze. In a real fight, she would have followed up with a head-butt…something she doubted would help her secure a friendship with this testy individual. Her hesitation cost her the fight. Entirely accidentally, in his struggle to release his sword, Much stepped back onto her foot – hard.

Jerking in pain, her balance was lost, and she only just managed to swipe his sword away as it swung around. Stumbling back, it was only a few seconds more before the tip of Much's sword was resting lightly on her stomach, her own sword uselessly dangling from her flailing arms, flung instinctively to either side to prevent herself from toppling over. Much took a deep breath, nodding reassuringly to himself.

"There, you see?" he announced, his face grey and his voice quavering. "Not scared!"

From his vantage point, Allan laughed, like some blue-eyed mockingbird. "She had you worried," he said dismissively. Under the tree, Will's eyes flicked back down to his work.

Burning with frustration at herself, Djaq risked a glance at Robin. His face was thoughtful, and as Much stalked off, he approached.

"I have not held a sword in a long time," she told him, as way of an apology, cringing at how flimsy the excuse sounded. Instead of answering, Robin drew his own sword and took a fighting stance in front of her. There was dead silence over the camp, other men not even pretending to be busy with their tasks any longer.

For a moment she was simply gob-smacked at the sight of the Saracen sword in his hands, her mind immediately flitting back to the previous day, in which she'd been kneeling next to Allan beside the iron mines. Her taste for the absurd had caused a trickle of droll humour to flit through her mind once she had realized that he – an Englishman – had his face demurely covered, whilst she – born to be a modest Muslim woman – crouched beside him with her face exposed to the world. And now she stood facing a weapon of her own people in pale hands, with a straight blade of the English in her own.

Her nerves fought back against uncontrollable desire to laugh, and she swallowed, hoping she didn't look as sick as she felt.

This time Robin struck first, slowly to begin with, allowing her the chance to observe his fighting style and adapt her own, before speeding up. As generous as the gesture was, she knew within seconds that she would loose – Robin fought with the fluidity and grace of a natural-born fighter, whose skills had been honed and perfected with years of discipline and training.

She poured all her effort into simply holding her own, despite knowing that even if she'd been at her best, her proactive and graceless fighting style would be no match for Robin's dancing, effortless movement of feet and sword. It wasn't too long before his sword edge sat gently across her wrists and she was forced to concede. Sweaty and more exhausted than she would have expected, she hoped at least that she'd put up a good fight. _He should at least take into account that I've had been underfed for the last six months,_ she thought, and wondered briefly if reminding him of this fact wouldn't sound too petulant. If Robin didn't believe she could take care of herself in a fair fight, she may as well start cooking their breakfast and making their beds now.

He was looking at her speculatively, and opened his mouth to speak – when a sudden noise rang out over the clearing. She glanced around, startled, and glimpsed what looked like a bell of some crude design clanging up in the treetops.

"That's the eastern road into Nottingham," said a quiet voice. It was Will, speaking for the first time that morning.

"Let's go lads," Robin cried, leaping away like there were springs on the soles of his feet. "Djaq…John…you two stay here."

For a moment her mind was stuck on the unfamiliar word that he'd used – _what did "lads" mean?_ – but the question was soon swept away as she watched the other men scamper around the campsite, fetching their weapons and racing out of sight within the space of a few moments.

"But we haven't had breakfast yet!" Much's voice echoed back through the trees, and then there was silence.

She turned to look at the huge figure of John, who had likewise turned to face her; the expression on his face reflecting what she expected was on hers: total apprehension.

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_Next chapter: Djaq talks with Little John and begins to settle in to her place among the gang. But things aren't going to run smoothly for that much longer..._


	3. Little John

_I'm a little nervous about this chapter, as it's my first time writing for Little John, and I'm not quite sure that I've gotten his voice right. I just couldn't bring myself to use one of his trademark "I liked" sentences (I hate catchphrases!) so I've just tried to make him as stoic as possible._

_Also, I know nothing about sword fighting, so goodness knows if any of this is described properly. I'm just going to hope that no one out there knows anything about it either!_

_And it's still light on the OT3, but it's coming - I promise!_

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**Chapter Three: Little John**

"Where are they going?" she called to the giant man, still a little out of breath.

"There'll be travellers on the road into Nottingham," John told her. "They've gone to lighten their load. It's what we do."

It took a moment for her to understand, but when his words became clear, she was more confused than ever. What kind of outlaws freed Saracen slaves, let a woman sleep among them unmolested, and then rushed off to steal from innocent travellers? Who _were _these men?

And then a more troubling thought occurred to her: if thieving was indeed their occupation, then she had been left behind – and what's worse – her presence had forced another of their number to stay behind with her. _To protect me?_ she wondered bitterly. As she glumly hefted up her sword, intending to put herself through some rigorous exercise, she glanced up to see John approaching her. She drew herself up for a challenge, ready to remind him that she'd saved – well, _helped _save his life – and ended up surprised for what seemed like the hundredth time that day (and it was still only morning!) when he extended his hand.

"I did not get the chance to thank you for yesterday," he said in his deep, grumbly voice. Relieved, she put her small hand into his burly paw and they shook solemnly.

"Thank you, little one."

She smiled, letting the endearment go uncommented upon for now, and glanced across at the massive staff held in his other hand.

"You fight with that?" she asked.

"I do," he replied, hefting it in his hands and holding it across his body with two hands. Djaq cast her eyes over it, doubting that she could even lift it, let alone do damage with it.

"You have good form," he told her, nodding at her sword. "Robin was showing off – but you managed to surprise him. And we all saw Much stand on your foot."

She brushed off the compliment, though was secretly pleased.

"I am out of practice, and weak. Brooker did not feed us very well."

Anger crossed the man's face – though it was not directed at her – and for a fleeting moment she wondered if he was a father, for it was with a paternal concern for the welfare of a smaller being that he ushered her to the scant remains of last night's rabbits and cut portions for them both. The meal was paltry, having to leave some meat to spare for the four absent men, but for this she was thankful. After so many months of an empty stomach, she knew that gorging herself would only make her sick.

As they ate, she glanced at John guiltily. "I am sorry you were left behind," she said. He shrugged.

"Ah, the lads can handle it without me."

That was beside the point, and once again her mind snagged itself on that unfamiliar word, but all that was swept away as he wiped his hands, reached for his staff and gestured to her to follow him back down to the clearing in which she'd sparred with Much and Robin.

He held the staff across his body and gestured with it, inviting her to parry with him.

"Just practice," he told her. Grateful beyond words, she began her old fencing exercises, her body quickly recalling the memories of the routine as she whacked the staff with the flat of her blade, following its movements through the air, perfecting her footwork. It was clear that John – like her – favoured a more direct method of attack, forsaking agility in order to use one's weight against an opponent. Of course, the style worked better for John considering there was so much _more _weight to work with, but the steady back-and-forth of his staff felt achingly familiar. Gradually she felt her strength returning, regaining her ability to defend herself, and she gave herself over to the movements, wondering if she could possibly explain to this man how delicious the activeness of her body felt after so many terrible weeks of chains and bars. She was not sure she could, and so hoped that her enthusiasm in the exercise spoke for itself.

"Where did you learn how to fight?" he asked at one stage.

Not being ready to reveal the truth of her abilities – not yet anyway – she told him that her entire household had been trained in the ways of the sword, explaining that the war had caused her father to insist on his entire family learning to defend themselves should the worst happen.

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About an hour later, sweaty but pleased, she heard voices reaching out across the forest, and sure enough, the other outlaws appeared soon after. Much and Allan were crowing in triumph, and Robin and Will had large grins across their faces as they lugged two chests between them. Her own smile faded, remembering her earlier confusion at their activities. She kept quiet as Will, by some trick of the hand that even her quick eyes missed, managed to yank open the locked chests to reveal the bounty within.

Allan gave a cry of glee, and plunged his hand amongst the coins, lifting up a fistful.

"Allan," Robin said warningly, and the hand dropped them back, a little reluctantly, or so it seemed.

"Where to?" John asked, as Robin and Much began to shovel the coins into a range of pouches that Will had retrieved from the hollow of a fallen log.

"Edwinstowe and Nettlestone," Robin replied. "And we'll move on to the cave tonight."

"No! Not the cave!" Much suddenly wailed. "It's cold and wet and dark and creepy and _cold _and-"

The list of grievances went on as Djaq found herself caught up in the process of gathering up the tools and equipment dispersed around the camp before following the boys out on what would become her first drop-off.

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That evening, wrapped in her blankets in the cave – which was as dark and dismal as Much had declared – she marvelled over the latest eye-opener of this extraordinary day. That these men robbed from the rich and then proceeded to give it all away to the poor. Even now it was difficult to believe.

She had been given a few curious looks as she helped distribute the moneybags, but there had been no hostility directed at her. Either Robin's mighty influence over the people safeguarded even an enemy of their country, or the villagers were so hungry and downtrodden that they didn't care who provided them with their next meal, so long as it was provided.

After giving out the money where it was needed, and promising more to those who had missed out, the gang had disappeared back into the trees, heading for the nearby cave. She walked beside John, half-listening to Much's loud verbalising to Robin ahead and the murmering of Will and Allan's significantly quieter conversation behind. As they approached the entrance of the hillside cave, John gave her a little nudge.

"Any of this lot give you any trouble, you come see me," he told her. "Especially if it's _that _one." He nodded his head in what was unmistakably Allan's direction. Djaq felt touched at the gallantry, though a little discouraged. If John thought anyone was likely to give her trouble, then there could only be one possible reason for that trouble. Was she just another stray that needed taking care of, with the added difficulty that she could end up being a potential target for propositioning? She forcefully injected a manlier gait into her stride as they climbed the hillside.

After an even scarcer meal than the day before, the outlaws drifted off to sleep one by one, till finally only she and Robin remained by the campfire near the mouth of the cave. Now at last, they could talk.

They discussed the Holy War and the price that it had cost each country, as well as each of them personally. She told him of her family's deaths, though kept all the details to herself, and he confided in her the loss of many of his own comrades in the bloody battles. He told her of his loyalty to King Richard, even as he admitted the futility of the war he waged, and she carefully explained the scorn and bitterness that Saracens held toward the white invaders. He told her about the corruption he'd come home to in England, of evil men like Sheriff Vaysey, who milked the war to his own advantage, lining his coffers and tightening his grip on the country, crippling the poor all the while in order to fund a war that kept him in power. She told him of her father's work as a physician among the wounded and the dying, and the premonition he'd made that she'd never forget: that if the war was not resolved soon, then the anger being stirred up in her people would resonant down throughout history. Finally, Robin told her of Marian, a faraway gleam in his eye, and she scolded herself for feeling a tiny pang of regret, one she impatiently pushed aside and away forever.

The fire had flickered down, and they'd bidden each other goodnight in Arabic, with Robin heading further into the cave, Djaq choosing to sleep close to its mouth despite the cold. The gloomy depths of the cave reminded her a little too much of the dark hold of the slave ship, that terrible darkness that she'd been thrown into, that rolling, stinking, endless agony in which she was sure she'd be forced to stay forever. Looking reluctantly back now, it felt like it had happened to someone else, someone who was neither Djaq nor Safiyah, someone who had been stripped of everything that had made her who she was: her family, her name, her home, her country, her freedom and her hair. Noble-born Safiyah had become a nameless slave, and in being treated as nothing by her loathsome jailers, she'd become nothing. She'd retreated so deeply into herself that her expressionless face and blank eyes had unnerved those who claimed to own her, and they'd avoided her as a result. Her withdrawal tactics had probably saved her life, removing her from pain and shock and hopelessness and allowing her escape into oblivion.

After emerging out the other side, half-carried from ship to port, she'd felt blinded by the light, as raw and numb as one of her father's surgery patients after an operation – no longer in pain, but too weak to feel, to think, or to understand anything. It would still take a while to regain or replace the missing pieces of herself that had been taken from her before and during that horrific journey in the dark. But now, after today – with a weapon in her hand and a new purpose in her life, she felt a piece of her spirit return. A piece that was unfamiliar, since Safiyah had existed solely to please her family and find a husband, not to rob rich travellers alongside outlaws, but it was a spark of life that she eagerly felt kindled inside her.

Like an arrow shot from the forest onto the path before her feet, Robin had given her a reason to live on, allowing her to swear fealty to a cause that sought to end the war that had destroyed all she'd held dear. She could fight such a battle here, in her own way, far from the suffocating women's quarters of home, in which she'd existed only to preen and coo and flutter like a dove. And in doing so, she could put her father's skills to good use in helping the sick and miserable multiude of peasants that she'd witnessed today. They were not her own countrymen, but the poor were the same in any country and could benefit from her abilities no less than any other type of human being. She would make Robin's cause a part of her, repay the man who had restored her freedom, and in doing so, fill a bit of that terrible abyss inside her.

For she was still trying to discover who this new self was – this woman who was no longer Safiyah, not quite Djaq. Until she'd figured it out, she'd be Robin Hood.

* * *

As she drifted off to sleep, one hand wrapped comfortingly around the hilt of the short sword, a strange, dreamy thought came upon her just before sleep took her: that you learnt a lot about a man from the way he fought. Today, she had seen Robin, Much and John in such a way, and in doing so, gathered necessary information about them. Allan and Will however…they still eluded her…

* * *

_Next chapter: the plot finally kicks into gear when the gang ambush a mysterious envoy travelling through Sherwood._


	4. Ambush

_Thanks to all my readers: your patience will hopefully be rewarded in this chapter, as not only does the story kick into gear, but I can promise you that there'll be a Will/Djaq conversation in the Very Next Chapter!_

**Chapter Four: Ambush**

The next few weeks passed without major incident, and Djaq became used to the rhythm of life among outlaws: restless days of hiding out in the woods and nights of slumber under the stars, and endless movement from one campsite to another in order to confuse anyone that might be sent out to track them down. These regular expeditions throughout the forest left her hopelessly lost, for despite her awareness that there were several different species of trees in England, somehow those that made up Sherwood Forest managed to all look the same to her. Eyes and ears were constantly alert for signs of passage in and out of Nottingham, but it would seem that after the successful robbery on her first day among them, any potential travellers were opting to stay at home.

She found herself spending most of her time with Much and John. John – who had lived and worked in the forest even before he'd become an outlaw – was teaching her the names and properties of many herbs, mushrooms and berries growing on the forest floor. With his help, she learnt the English names of the plants she recognised from home – those she knew to have medicinal traits – and discovered a range of new ones, all of which she carefully memorised and collected, stashing them away in a small pouch should they ever become necessary. John reminded Djaq of her father, who despite being a much smaller man than John, had who had the same unlikely grace about him, an interest in the miniscule worlds of nature, and a weight of the spirit that made them both sturdy pillars of strength in what she knew was a very fickle and changeful world.

Much on the other hand, reminded her of Bassam. Although Bassam had been considerably quieter, they nevertheless shared the tendency to speak without consulting their minds first, resulting in considerable exasperation from those around them. Remembering the way Bassam had gradually withdrawn from the rest of the world, eventually coming to prefer the company of birds to that of people, she made an effort to sympathise with Much over his hunger pains, the hardness of the ground he slept on, the way the cold weather made him feel ill, and the constant heckling of the others. She sensed that it was _safe _to show affection toward Much, feeling that although he was conscious of the fact that she was a woman, he did not quite understand the implications that could arise over the idea of a single woman living among five men.

Therefore, it was near Much that she rolled out her blankets, next to him that she sat around the campfire, and to him that she spoke with most during the day. Of course, the talkative side to him could get tiresome, and she was occasionally thankful for the frequent "shut ups" that Allan directed at him (even if his tone of voice _could _be a little kinder) and she'd never forget the day that she caught him filling his mouth with the herb that she'd foolishly told him was for stomach pains earlier in the day. "I thought it would help my hunger pains!" he'd cried, gesturing to the meagre remains of the wood-pigeon that had been their meal that evening. "Not _that _kind of stomach pain," she'd sighed, trying to salvage what was left.

As for Robin, there was little chance of talking with him in the day. Even when the others lolled around the campsite, he was always on the move, taking solo expeditions into Nottingham, writing letters to various nobles, or whittling arrows and practicing his shooting. On the rare occasion when he was simply sitting with the rest, he was still detached: thinking, plotting, dreaming, caught up in a world of his own that Djaq suspected featured only two others: King Richard and Lady Marian.

Only as evening fell, when the others were drifting off to sleep, did the two of them speak to one another, discussing politics, history, philosophy, and other subjects that emerged from their educated past, topics that somehow seemed rude to discuss in front of their others. Neither had been particularly enthusiastic scholars, but there was a need for both of them to remind themselves that they had not always been in the situation they were now, an ego-driven desire to separate themselves from the illiterate and superstitious woodsmen that slumbered around them. More than any of the others, Djaq and Robin were the most displaced members of the gang, having been torn from wealth and rank and thrown into poverty and destitution. In this way Robin reminded her of Khalid…but she didn't want to dwell too long on those particular memories. Nevertheless, it brought her a sense of comfort in finding echoes of home in these foreign men.

She was still keeping her distance from Will and Allan, speaking to them only when she needed to, and not opening herself up to any sort of conversation. Despite this, she could feel them watching her sometimes, and there were other things too, things so subtle that she wasn't entirely sure she wasn't just imagining them. For instance, whenever it was Will's turn to distribute the blankets, it seemed to her that she was always left holding the warmest one. Whenever she helped Much with the cooking, Allan's usual complaints about its quality (or lack thereof) were oddly silenced. When either of them divided up the rations among the group, she couldn't help but feel that hers were the larger portions. She could never be completely sure, but if they were indeed signs of mute communication, then she was forced to simply ignore them. Djaq was not vain, but neither was she naïve, knowing that in a life filled with long days and cold nights, it wouldn't take much encouragement to convince an otherwise stable-minded man to believe that he was in love with the single female in his vicinity.

It was only after she noticed Allan casually eying her waistcoat in the attempt to find some semblance of a figure underneath it (swiftly followed by a warning grunt from John) that she realised her boy's clothes weren't doing a shred of good. She'd exchanged the mysteries of the veil and the various youths who had sought to catch a glimpse of the beauteous Safiyah, with garments that hid every line and curve of her body. "Men are intrigued by what they cannot see," her mother's voice echoed mockingly in her head. Djaq had grimaced to herself. It wasn't enough to simply be dressed as a boy – she would have to take her femininity and push it down so deep that not even she would be able to see it.

She tried her hardest to invoke the real Djaq, recalling every gesture and mannerism that he'd once made. In all her prayers she would ask for some semblance of her brother to envelop her, to hide her away from her true self, recalling her twin's life to the best of her ability. Djaq, who had been an insufferable dreamer, the bane of her father's life, a poet and a layabout, who had grudgingly undergone training as a soldier only to avoid following in his father's footsteps as a physician, who fell hopelessly in love every other week – and spend most of his free time wooing the latest object of his affection, when he wasn't coming up with elaborate pranks ranging from setting all of Bassam's pigeon free to pinning the veils of his mother's matronly friends to the back of their chairs. As much as she had loved him, he wasn't exactly the paragon of masculinity she was striving to emulate.

After one such prayer, recalling the aspects of her brother in what seemed like something close to despair, she sat up on her knees and closed her eyes wearily. Her prayers these days seemed to be made up of memories and daydreams rather than a conscious surrender of body and soul to heaven. Sometimes she wondered whether Allah could still see her in this sunless country, whether all her suffering and pain had been some sort of punishment for the unorthodox way she'd lived her life back home. Perhaps she was still being punished in this cold exile from home, yet with the absence of any bolts of lightening from the heavens, she could only assume that His eyes were so fixed on the bloodshed and horror of his Holy Land that there was no time to concern Himself about one lonely acolyte, adrift in a country far from home, doing what she had to do to survive.

She was startled out of her reverie by the sound of a clanging high in the trees – one of Will's alarms had been triggered, warning them of travellers on the road through Sherwood. It was through an intricate set of tripwires that passage throughout the forest was carefully monitored, and since she'd arrived there had been no warning of any potential targets – until now. Instantaneously, all six outlaws sprung to their feet.

"East Road," Will said, and everyone scrambled for swords, bows, arrows and staffs. Djaq's heart began to pound when she realised that no one was ordering her to stay behind this time. Robin was the first be ready, and he silently dashed away into the forest.

"He runs ahead in order to see who's coming," Much told her. "We wait for him at the ambush point."

She nodded in understanding, and cast a glance over at Allan and Will, wondering if she'd get the chance to see them use the weapons they were currently arming themselves with. She was especially interested in Will and the axe that was never out of his arm's reach, and was currently being slung over his back. She had tried not to laugh when she had first seen it, finding it hard to imagine that any one could effectively wield a tool for felling trees against human enemies – _what's he going to do, chop at people?_ – she'd wondered. Now she couldn't help but be doubly curious as she fell into step next to Much.

The outlaws' collection of rough campsites were strewn around Sherwood Forest, but none of them were positioned more than a ten minute sprint from one of the main roads to and from Nottingham. Likewise, Will's alarms were designed to give them a head-start on any traffic passing through, allowing the outlaws to reach designated ambush-locations well before any travellers arrived. As such, it wasn't long before all five of them were crouched in hiding places either side of the road, listening for sounds of passage down the leaf-strewn road. Her heart pounding loudly, Djaq glanced at Much, wondering if she should ask what to expect. Not wanting to look nervous, she instead decided to simply follow his lead.

_Whatever you do, don't try to show off, _she told herself firmly. If she could pull this off effectively and efficiently without trying to impress anybody, Robin wouldn't question her ability to do what was required of her.

It was not long before Robin returned, approaching Much and Djaq as silently as a cat, emerging out of the trees behind them.

"There's a small convoy coming," he whispered to them. "Small, but guarded. And…there's something odd about it…I can't explain it. Have your weapons drawn, but don't try to intimidate anyone just yet. We'll see if we can get some information first."

He darted across the road to where Will, Allan and John were hiding, presumably to pass on the same instructions. Djaq squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her grip on her sword hilt, hearing the sounds of approach.

Within a few moments, the cart trundled into sight. It was a small two-wheeled gig pulled by a small pony, its contents covered by a canvas, and holding a single passenger: a man of middling years who held the reins and searched the trees either side of him with suspicious eyes. Positioned on either side and at the back of the cart were three younger men, tall and strong-looking, with hoods obscuring their faces and cloaks pulled tight around their bodies. Djaq frowned. Robin was right…there was definitely something wrong with these men…

Just as the cart rattled past Djaq's hiding place, Robin swiftly stepped out of the trees and grasped the reins of the pony firmly.

"Good afternoon," he greeted the group cheerfully. "It's a fine day for a stroll through Sherwood Forest."

Djaq copied Much's actions as he emerged from the bushes to flank the right hand side of the cart, their movements mirrored by Will and Allan on the other side, whilst John took up a formidable position at the rear of the cart. Djaq watched the man nearest to her with wary eyes. She could see that however they might be dressed, they were certainly not peasants. Their movements were too careful, and their eyes too focused on their unexpected opponents to be anything other than men with a purpose.

The driver ran his shrewd eyes over Robin and cleared his throat.

"Let us pass," he said, with what sounded like a considerable amount of confidence to Djaq's ears. "My sons and I are travelling into Nottingham to see my mother. She's sick, and we bring her supplies."

He tried to yank the reins free of Robin's grasp, and failed. Robin smiled in return, and raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"Ah, but I would advise you against going to Nottingham," he told them. "It's not a nice place to visit. It's full of beggars and thieves. Starving people on every street corner. There's not nearly enough food to go around, and the sheriff…well, let's just say that you don't want to run into him. Not to mention that the only road to Nottingham is through Sherwood Forest, and that place is full of outlaws and brigands just waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting traveller. It's lucky for you that you ran into us first."

The men shifted nervously, and Robin looked past the driver to nod at John. Nodding back, John stepped forward and whipped the canvas covering off the back of the cart, exposing several bulging sacks, a few small kegs, and a cage of chickens. The driver turned back to Robin with a blank stare.

"As you can see, we're just simple peasants," he told him.

"Then you won't mind if we have a closer look," Robin replied.

With another flick of his head – this time at Will and Allan – the three men on foot were drawn away from the cart and pushed up against trees bordering the road. Djaq followed Much's lead as he stepped forward and began to rummage through the cart. However, if Robin was expecting riches, he was to be disappointed, as the kegs held ale, the sacks held grain, and the chickens were –

"Definitely chickens," Much announced.

Robin exchanged a long look at the driver.

"Why don't you step down and stretch your legs?" he suggested firmly. "Much, help the man down. And Djaq, come here and hold this fine pony for me."

Djaq exchanged places with Robin, whilst Much encouraged the driver down from his seat with a rough pull on his arm. As Much lined the man up next to his so-called sons against the trees, Robin roamed his eyes over the cart before suddenly ducking down out of sight. He emerged with a wicked grin on his face, and immediately began depositing the contents of the cart onto the forest floor.

Hidden underneath the supplies were the lids of two chests, one considerably larger than the other, both of which were snugly inserted into rectangular holes sawn into the planks of the cart. It was easy to assume that the bottom halves of each chest were suspended under cart itself, effectively hiding them from view. Looking immensely pleased with himself, Robin heaved out each chest and unclasped them under the surly view of their owners. Each one was packed with coins, and Robin looked across them to the men.

"It's an awfully warm day today," he said, conversationally. "Far too warm to be wearing those heavy cloaks. Why don't you take them off and let yourselves cool down?"

Since the weather was just as cold on this day as it usually was, the comment's true implications were not lost on the men, who glanced uneasily at one another. The driver stiffened, but seeing himself surrounded, he nodded reluctantly to his companions. Slowly, they reached up, unclasped their cloaks and let them fall to the forest floor. Each one of them had a sword belted around their waist.

"Interesting," Robin declared. "We don't often see hungry peasants carrying swords. What's your business in Nottingham?"

"That's tribute," the driver said sullenly. "For the sheriff of Nottingham. The smaller coffer was for you, should we run into you on the way."

For the first time, Robin seemed genuinely surprised, and the other outlaws exchanged glances.

"Interesting. And who might your employer be?"

The man did not answer, but inexplicably, his eyes flickered in Djaq's direction.

"Hey," Robin snapped, finally getting irritable. "Answer the question. Who's sending you to Nottingham? And what's the tribute for?"

Finally sick of Robin's attitude, annoyed at being humiliated in front of his men, and more than a little on-edge at the fact that Much's sword point was situated close to his belly, the man snarled a response:

"I don't have to say anything to you! I've heard of you, Locksley, and I'm not some nobleman, leeching off the backs of the poor. I'm just a man being paid to do a job – deliver these goods to the sheriff of Nottingham, so that I can go home and feed my own family."

"You're not leaving this forest until I get some answers."

Djaq had been listening to this exchange with growing alarm, the unspoken threat behind Robin's words throwing her back into a turmoil of memories: blood, pain, darkness, panic…

These men, she knew they were outlaws, but surely they wouldn't…

"Wait!" she cried as Robin approached the helpless men threateningly. "I have another way."

Desperately she let go of the pony's reins and pulled the small glass vial out of her pocket – she had carried it there for weeks as a good luck charm – and brandished it before them all. Holding it carefully so as to hide its emptiness from the travellers (the acid had dissolved on the day she'd used it to revive John at the bottom of the mine) she moved closer to the nervous-looking driver, and held it before his eyes.

"This is a Saracen potion," she told him firmly. "If I was to pour this down your throat, every secret you've ever had since you were seven years old would come spilling out your mouth like a bird-song. Not to mention that it would hurt – a lot. So it would be best for you if you simply answered Robin's questions. Then you can go on your way safety."

The man gazed at her and the tiny vial in horror, before turning back to Robin, looking gob-smacked. Robin shrugged.

"You heard him. Speak up, or drink up."

"Alright, alright. Look – we were approached at the docks. This man…this, er…nobleman, I think he was," he stuttered, casting another odd glance in Djaq's direction. "He comes to us and offers us money if we were to take a tribute to the sheriff to announce his coming. We're an envoy, see? Supposed to herald his arrival, and pay up the sheriff to make sure he'll receive him properly. Look – got the guy's ring and everything!"

He pulled a leather thong out from beneath his clothing, a heavy signet ring dangling from its length.

"When I told him about you lot hiding out in Sherwood Forest, he adds another casket to the bounty – the smaller one - telling me that it's for you – to let us go unhindered if you were to stop us."

Robin looked over the two chests, and then deliberately hefted the larger chest to the ground.

"Sheriff Vaysey will never know," he said confidentially, and swaggered over to take a closer look at the ring still dangling from the man's neck. It was at that moment that the man standing next to the driver struck. Whipping his sword out of his scabbard and gaining momentum by pushing himself away from the tree he had been leaning against, he lunged at Robin, who only just managed to leap out of the way. Within a matter of seconds, everyone had leapt into the escalating fray.

Caught off guard, Djaq fumbled to return the vial to her pocket, not wanting to simply drop it on the forest floor after so many months of keeping it safe, and yanked her sword. Much sprang to her side, and together they attempted to keep the driver from reclaiming his seat on the cart and fleeing the forest.

Much's fighting technique was the closest in style to her own, and – as she'd expected – they fought well together, fending off the sweat-drenched man as he stumbled toward the cart as though it guaranteed him safety from the dangers of the forest.

Vaguely, she heard Robin yell out an order, but her mind was too focused on the task at hand to pay attention. It was only when Much grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the trees that she realized that he'd called a retreat. Glancing back, she noticed that the man had catapulted himself onto the driver's seat of the cart and grasped the reins, another of his company throwing himself onto the back and hanging on for dear life as the skittish pony bolted, taking the cart and its two passengers with it.

Robin and John rushed past her, and she wrenched herself free of Much's grasp when she realized that this could be her chance. Throwing herself against the nearest tree to slow her momentum on the sloped ground, she peeked around to see Allan and Will combat the remaining two men. In the few moments it took before the travellers fled the forest, Djaq took the measure of both of them.

Allan fought with the shadow of Robin's grace, but none of his restraint. The raw talent was there, but it had not been tempered with discipline, and as such it lacked confidence. In its place was a brutality to his fighting that revealed a man who was conscious that life – particularly _his_ life – was a temporary condition at best.

As for Will, she felt a wave of shame pass over her for her dismissal of his abilities, because watching him now, she realised she'd completely misjudged him. The axe was a part of him – weapon and tool and extension of his being all at once – and he was dispatching his opponent with less effort than the rest of the outlaws she'd witnessed thus far. As the two remaining men retreated, realizing that their companions had already left, Will deftly spun the axe in his hand and returned it to the holster slung across his back. She turned swiftly so that neither one of them would see that she'd been watching them, and quickened her step to catch up with Much.

* * *

_Yeah, it was really, really long, I know - but if you've made it this far: thanks!_


	5. Will Scarlett

_Hello dear readers, thank you for your subscriptions and reviews, and here's chapter five!_

_But first, a disclaimer:_

_There is a scene in this chapter concerning Djaq's reaction to English rain that was directly inspired by a lovely one-shot Allan/Djaq fic by **Keeping Amused** called **"Discovery in a Dark Alley,"** that comes very highly recommended by me! Thanks KA for letting me nick your idea, this chapter is for you!_

* * *

**Chapter Five: Will Scarlett**

The outlaws gathered together in a nearby clearing, struggling to catch their breaths. Naturally, Robin was the first to recover, standing up straight and announcing their next move. Djaq could almost see the wheels churning in his head as he spoke: "A nobleman is visiting the sheriff – we need to figure out who is and what he wants…and when he's coming. Something's going on here – maybe something to do with the king. We'll get to Nottingham and see what Marian can find out –"

His face grew suddenly more animated and his eyes shone at the mention of the name. Djaq hid a smile as the shoulders of the other outlaws slumped.

"First, we eat," John announced firmly. "We're not far from the Edwinstowe campsite."

Robin tapped his foot impatiently, but his empty stomach made him reluctantly nod his head in agreement.

"Fine – we eat, then to Nottingham. There's something funny about all this…those men-"

As he spoke, Djaq absentmindedly pulled the glass vial out of her pocket and then jumped in fright as Allan suddenly staggered away from her.

"Oy – keep that away from me!" he yelped, nearly falling over himself in the attempt to put distance between himself and the tiny vial.

Robin snorted with laughter.

"It's not a real potion Allan!"

Allan glanced around at the others nervously, and then cast his gaze back to the bottle in her hand.

"Oh," he muttered, straightening his shirt and trying to regain his dignity – a difficult feat considering the snickering of the others. "Well, I know that now."

Djaq glanced at him a little wearily. Superstition and falsity ruled the lives of so many people – she never thought she'd live to see herself consort with the likes of these men…but watching his expression now, she was surprised to glimpse a grin snake across his face. Once he realized the nature of her bluff, he looked as pleased with it as though he'd come up with the idea himself.

His unexpected reaction reminded her guiltily of Will. She'd dismissed him as a peasant boy, and then been witness to unsurpassable skill. Now she felt ashamed for having considered herself superior to him. Just because he couldn't read or write didn't mean he wasn't the master of his own craft, honing his skill until it was as refined as the calligraphic painter she'd witness as a child. Recalling the way her father's Asiatic visitor had written out Safiyah's name with his fine brush and black ink, she could not help but be reminded of the way Will had wielded the axe that was now slung over his shoulder: it was an instrument of purpose that he had mastered so entirely that he had ceased to consider it a mastery, and instead believed it to be a typical aspect of his being. She cringed at her own arrogance, especially when acknowledging her own less-than-refined abilities with a sword.

"Let's go!" Robin cried, shaking her out of her thoughts as he bounded off through the forest, leaving them to follow in his wake. Djaq fell into place behind Much, turning the vial slowly between her fingers, casting her mind back to the ambush. Her troubled thoughts must have reflected on her face, for a soft voice suddenly spoke at her side.

"Robin wasn't going to hurt that man," Will told her, glancing at her tentatively. "He gets a bit carried away sometimes. But there's a line he won't cross."

She looked back at him, surprised that he'd guessed what she had been thinking, and risked a small smile in his direction.

"He told me as much on my first day among you," she admitted. "He is such a passionate man though. When I saw him…I suppose I just panicked."

"It was a clever trick though," Will said, and then looked away from her hurriedly; though his stride slowed slightly in order to keep pace with hers.

"Thank you," she replied, feeling awkwardness crawling into this first attempt at communication.

She supposed that ending the conversation was a good thing, but her past briskness with the youth and her newfound appreciation for his talents left her with the nagging feeling that she needed to make up for her previous behaviour. She gestured to the axe.

"It must be useful to have an axe as a weapon. It dispatches guards, and then chops up firewood."

A smile flitted across his face, just a tiny one, but it changed his entire expression: strangely enough, happiness made him look older.

"I can't remember a time I didn't have it," he told her. "Before coming here, I was a carpenter in Locksley with my father, before he…" he cleared his throat uncomfortably and continued. "We made most of the furniture in Locksley Manor from these very trees."

He raised one hand to brush his fingers through the leaves of an overhanging branch as they passed by.

"These trees," she echoed. "They're so strange to me. Before coming here I'd never seen a forest before."

Will was speechless for a moment, clearly finding the thought of a world without trees incomprehensible.

"I get so lost in this forest," she continued, copying his gesture and plucking a leaf from a tree they were passing. "They all look the same to me."

Regardless of whether he understood her intention, Will nevertheless took the cue she offered and pointed out the nearest tree.

"That one's a birch tree," he told her. "You can always tell because they're a silvery colour and they don't have proper bark. Look –"

He approached the nearest one, and pulled papery strip from its truck, offering it to Djaq.

"It's good for kindling," he told her, and she returned the vial to her pocket so she could curl the strange substance through her fingers.

"This one here – this is an oak," he continued. "They're the oldest trees in the forest. See the leaves? You can tell the oak by the shape of the leaves."

He passed her another example – an oval-shaped leaf with serrated edges, which seemed suddenly familiar.

"The weapon's stash!" she said suddenly. "It was an oak tree that you carved out to hide the weapons."

"That's right," he said, sounding more impressed with her recollection that was strictly necessary. "There it is over there."

He pointed to another nearby tree, and with a jolt the foreign surroundings suddenly fell into place in Djaq's mind. The outlaws were fast approaching the very first campsite that she'd ever stayed in. They passed the hollowed-out oak tree that still held two swords, several bows, a few knives and an assortment of arrows, and climbed the ridge to familiar surroundings sheltered under a massive tree – a massive _oak_ tree – she told herself.

"That's one of the biggest oaks in the forest," Will told her. "It's called the King Oak."

A playful smile tugged at the sides of her mouth.

"Is that what everyone calls it, or just what _you _call it?" she asked, and Will looked away, turning bright red.

She winced at his embarrassed reaction to her words. Like most teenagers, Will Scarlett was clearly someone who didn't like to be teased. She'd have to remember that in future, but in the next moment, she realized for the first time that a coppery stain was soaking through his shirt about his elbow. Stunned, she could only point at it in shock.

He glanced at his arm and cringed. "Oh…it doesn't hurt that much."

"Don't be daft," cut in another voice. Allan approached them and peered at the blood smeared on the cloth.

"She's a physician, ain't she? Let her 'ave a look."

The others gathered around, and Robin voiced his agreement with Allan's suggestion. Djaq's heart began to thud in anticipation – this was her first chance to prove herself as an invaluable member of the group. Any one of them could fight, but only she could stitch up the results of such fighting.

Robin guided Will to a nearby rock and forced him to sit, telling him to carefully roll up his sleeve. Djaq knelt down next to him, gazing intently at the wound. It was a small cut, but reasonably deep, no doubt caused by one of the traveller's swords in that final skirmish before the hurried retreat. In the space of a second she'd made up her mind – the cut didn't need sewing. With a simple bandage, it would heal on its own over the course of a few days. But she would be a damn fool if she didn't use this unfortunate circumstance to demonstrate her usefulness to Robin. Shoving aside a tickle of guilt – both for the unnecessary steps she was about to take, and for her secret delight that Will's injury provided her with this opportunity – she asked for a needle and thread.

It was Much who fetched his pouch of sewing equipment, Allan who used his flint to set fire to the strip of birch tree and Robin who held it carefully as Djaq sterilised the needle in its heat before turning again to Will's bloody arm. As the four other outlaws crowded around to watch the procedure over her shoulder, she threaded the needle and gently pinched the wound between her fingers. Three tiny stitches later, she was wrapping a clean strip of cloth around the wound and glancing at Robin out the corner of her eye. It was hard to tell, but she thought he looked impressed, or at the very least, pleased. Then she made the mistake of glancing up at Will and her heart sank. She'd gone too far in her friendly gestures, for now Will was looking at her in the same way she had seen her lovelorn brother gazing upon various maidens throughout his youth.

"All done," she said quickly, standing up and wiping her hands clean in a bucket of water John had fetched for her.

"Right then!" cried Robin cheerily. "To Nottingham! Much, bring the food. We'll eat on the way."

She sighed to herself. Didn't he ever slow down?

* * *

For her first venture into Nottingham, Djaq made sure that her hood covered her head and that she didn't stray too far from John's side. Poor villagers didn't seem to care one way or the other about a Saracen in their midst, but she knew that towns were very different places from simple hamlets. Even so, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of curiosity in seeing the woman who held Robin's heart in her pocket. As they wound their way through the busy streets, she could see that the situation here was just as Robin had described it to the mysterious men in the forest: beggars sat on every street corner, filthy children ran barefoot through the mud and muck, and an expression of fear and unhappiness was on every pale, sickly face she saw.

As they crept into the shadows of an alleyway, Much whispered an explanation to her that Marian usually spent most of her days in Nottingham, consorting with the nobles at court in the attempt to gain inside information on the sheriff's plans.

"Okay lads," Robin said. "Split up and keep your eyes open. She's usually in the market this time of day." As they dispersed – Djaq noticing out the corner of her eye that Will took a few hesitant steps toward her before changing his mind and turning to chase after Allan – she came to a decision concerning that infuriating word. "Lads" must mean a gang or group. Whenever it was uttered, it seemed to refer to the whole company of them, and everyone acted accordingly to the orders that inevitably followed it. _Yes, that must be it_, she told herself, and fell into step next John to kept her eyes open for a woman that she'd never seen before.

After fifteen minutes of pointless wandering she and John heard a "psst!" and followed the sound to where the rest of the outlaws were squeezed into a narrow street, crowded around a blue-eyed, dark-haired noblewoman. Marian cast her eyes over the rest of the outlaws, and Djaq moved back into John's shadow, astonished to discover that she felt a little shy. The noblewoman looked very young, barely out of girlhood, and regarded Robin with a look of barely-contained irritation. Djaq frowned. Surely that wasn't the face of someone who was in love.

"Go on," Robin was saying. "Tell them what you told me."

Marian took a breath and addressed the outlaws: "I don't know much, but there is news of a nobleman visiting Nottingham within the next few days. Whoever he is, the sheriff seems pleased about it, though that could simply be because of the tribute that came with the messengers this afternoon. The whole castle is preparing for his arrival."

"Will he take any precautions to get the man here safely?" Robin demanded, and Marian gave a sigh of annoyance.

"I don't know Robin, all I've heard is the gossip in the castle. The envoy arrived, demanded to see the sheriff, and told him that the man who sent them could be expected to arrive within the next few days. It is all quite mysterious. When I first heard it, I expected it was some elaborate prank on _your_ behalf."

"Not this time. We ran across the men in the forest. There wasn't any indication what road the man would be taking?"

"No. But there's only one road from the port to Nottingham and that's through Sherwood Forest. Unless he's planning on going the long way around…but then he wouldn't have said he'd be arriving so quickly."

There was silence for a moment as the outlaws pondered the situation. Then Marian gave a start, as if she'd just remembered something:

"Oh Guy did say one thing – that whoever it was might travel by night or in disguise to try and avoid all of you. After all, if this man knew enough to provide a coffer of money for you, then he knows all about you already."

Robin scoffed. "Gisbourne came up with that theory all by himself?"

Marian rolled her eyes. "Just thought you might want to know."

"Well, be careful in there," Robin sniped. "Gisbourne might blind you with his dazzling insight."

"Be careful out there," she shot back with a smirk. "It looks like it'll rain tonight."

And with that, Lady Marian turned on her heel and marched away. She had not even noticed Djaq.

* * *

It did indeed rain that evening, the first English downpour that Djaq had ever seen, and it wasn't long before she was standing in the middle of it, her face raised to the sky, dumbstruck at the sensation of tiny raindrops softly beating against her body. The wonderment of the trees were nothing compared to this.

Along with the rain she felt another sensation soak into her: it was a growing sense of joy that was so far removed from the despair of the past few months that it seemed a gift from Allah, and tears soon joined the flow of raindrops pattering down upon her face. Later on, she'd feel embarrassed at her conduct, especially when recalling the assorted faces of the outlaws, watching her with expressions ranging from amusement to befuddlement, but at the time there was nothing else she could have done but let herself get drenched and occasionally laugh out loud like a town drunkard.

Finally Much came to fetch her, despite Robin's admonitions to let her be, and dragged her back toward the shelter.

"You'll catch a cold and _I_ don't want to be the one to look after you," he told her.

She grabbed hold of him and struggled for words.

"There's…there's so much!" she gasped, and then dissolved into idiotic giggles.

"It's just rain," he grumbled, but there was a smile in his blue eyes.

She lay under her blanket that night, trembling with cold and in excitement, feeling as though a piece of her – a dark, ugly piece of her that had been squatting in her soul like a toad – had been washed away, and something better was bursting to life in its place. "It's happening," she thought blissfully, unconsciously twirling an oak leaf between her fingers. "I'm coming back to life again."

* * *

_Apologises for falling to the old "woman tends a wounded man's injuries" cliché, but hey – she IS a physician, and it seemed the natural way to begin The Crush. _

_Also, the "King Oak" is actually a real tree in Sherwood Forest, and said to be the main hiding place of Robin Hood and his men (though it's called the "Major Oak" after the Major Hayman Rooke who came WAY after Robin's time, thus the name change here). Thanks Wikipedia!_


	6. AllanADale

_Hi readers, thanks for your patience. This chapter took a little longer than usual simply because I was getting depressed at the mounting evidence that Djaq and Will wouldn't be returning for S3. However, a recent interview with Jonas Armstrong (Robin) hinted that they would be back, and I suddenly felt the muse return! _

_Hopefully this was worth the wait!_

**Chapter Six: Allan-a-Dale**

That night it was her father's turn to visit her dreams. He appeared first in quick snatches: his soft, firm voice weaving in and out of her consciousness, her thoughts catching glimpses of his frail body and nimble fingers. Finally he solidified himself in a memory that blossomed in her mind, and she recalled the sadness of her father's face after he realised that despite all the accumulated wisdom of his lengthy years, he could not comprehend the mystery of his own son. The words of their argument echoed in her sleeping mind, of Djaq's determination to join the army, of her father's despair that his son had no interest in becoming a physician, of the terrible irony that the gifted Syed could fix almost any wound save the one that severed him from his boy. It was poison to his heart that the medicinal skills he valued above all else were met only with his son's desire to maim and kill; to make wounds instead of healing them.

But when Djaq set his mind upon something, nothing and nobody would stop him from blindly following his convictions…and Djaq had hated the invading pale-skinned men with an intensity that his twin had never before seen in their lifetime together. Almost overnight, his mischief, his smile, his laughter and his carefree nature had dissolved into a terrible hatred for the infidels, taking with them his father's long-cherished dream of passing on all his learning to a willing receptacle. All had been washed away by Djaq's desire for bloody glory on the battlefield.

"I'd be better off teaching your sister!" Syed had yelled after Djaq after one such disagreement, the first and last time Safiyah had ever heard her timid father raise his voice. It was that comment, yelled in anger and frustration that had sealed her fate, for – though much quieter and less prone to passionate outbursts – her father was just as stubborn as Djaq.

And so it was Safiyah had found herself in boy's clothes, her hair wrapped up in a turban, answering to her brother's name as she passed her father his surgical tools with hands that trembled at the sheer audacity of it all. Whilst in the darkened operating room the real Djaq was never mentioned or acknowledged, and in some odd way Safiyah felt that she became Djaq in her father's eyes – the Djaq he wanted: obedient, studious, interested…Then when the surgery was over, the spell was broken, and she was his daughter again, the activities of the room never to be mentioned so long as she was shrouded in her veils.

It was an illusion she maintained for her father's sake, allowing him to make her the son he so dearly wanted, all the time gradually absorbing what it was he had to teach: the workings of a body's organs, the limits of human endurance, how to cut, stitch, clot or clean a wound, how to be firm and business-like in dealing with the sweat and agony of frantic patients, and how sometimes, despite your best efforts, you had to watch them die. Every time she stepped out of that dark, smelly room she felt years older…

* * *

She awoke slowly to the drizzly cold English morning and unconsciously raised a hand to her head. Her father had once explained the phenomena of phantom limbs to her, and right now she could have sworn she felt the weight and length of her hair as her dream-self unravelled the turban and let it fall past her shoulders, slipping from the heat of her old home into the cold of her new one. She gazed around her blearily. Most of the men were already awake, though Much was still snoring, and Allan was staggering around half-asleep. However, Robin was scratching something in the ground with a stick and she yawned, stretched and went over to have a look.

"Just working out our positions," Robin explained as she leaned over and gazed at the surprisingly good diagram of the road through Sherwood Forest. "We'll set up a watch, see who this man is, and then confront him once we're sure we have the upper hand."

Djaq wrinkled her brow at the myriad of complications that could arise with such a simplistic plan, but said nothing. One by one, the other outlaws gathered around to look at the map.

"The nearest campsite to the edge of Sherwood is here," Robin told them, pointing with the stick. "We'll have Will rig up one of his alarms, and have someone on watch at all times. When whoever-this-is turns up, I'll scout ahead to check it out. Meanwhile, you four – I mean five – will race ahead here: to the ambush point." He pointed to another area on his rough map, a point at which the road through Sherwood significantly curved as it turned toward Nottingham. If the outlaws were to cut through the woods, they could gain a significant head-start on whoever was trying to make their way to the sheriff.

"'Ang on," said Allan. "How will we know for sure who this guy is? For all we know he could be loaded with guards 'n weapons 'n who knows what else. Whoever he is, he seems pretty determined to make it through to Nottingham."

"We don't want to stop him getting to Nottingham. Just find out his business," Robin told him.

"What about the drop-offs?" John asked. "How do they get done if we're all just sitting around waiting for a stranger to pass through?"

Robin sighed in frustration. "They'll get done. One of you will see to it."

"But that will take twice as long!"

"This is more important John," he insisted. "This man could prove to be a valuable ally or a dangerous enemy and I don't like not knowing which it is. We need to intercept him before he gets to the sheriff, which means we need to be near the road at all times." He spoke in a tone of voice that allowed for no argument, not through sheer forcefulness, but in the way he had clearly already made up his mind, a mind which was now racing ahead to the preparations that had to be made. The others were simply swept along in its wake.

* * *

So it was that John departed to take care of the day's distributions among the poor, whilst the others followed Robin to the next campsite so that Will could prepare another trip-wire alarm across the road. The remaining men settled into a range of tasks as the vigil began: Robin fletching several arrows, Much preparing food (muttering to himself about the dreary state of the weather all the while) and Allan entertaining himself by throwing pebbles at the back of Much's head from his resting place under a tree. The activity reminded Djaq so much of her brother – it was just the sort of irritating, pointless thing he used to do – that she turned away, sharpening her sword with the whetstone she'd found in the camp's supplies.

Lulled by the repetitive task, she dazed off into a reverie. She'd been dreaming of her father last night, and now – inevitably – her thoughts turned to his last patient, the one she'd blocked from her mind for so many months now. But now, after the cleansing rainfall of the previous day, it seemed the right time to finally bring the poison to the surface and let it be washed away.

On the night it had happened, she'd been awoken by her father shaking her shoulder and addressing her as Djaq. Wearily, she slipped out of bed and into the boy's clothes she kept hidden in the chest in the corner, her practised hands wrapping her braid around her head and under the folds of the turban. Quickly she'd scampered after her father's footsteps, trying to shake the vestiges of sleep from her mind – if this was an emergency, she'd need to be alert.

She'd arrived at the door of her father's surgery to find a small commotion going on, the kind of upset caused by frantic people desperately trying to keep quiet. She drew nearer, recognising her uncle and her father gesturing wildly over a body lying limply on a roughly-made stretcher, carried at one end by a panic-stricken Bassam. She only understood when the man who was at the head of the stretcher stepped out from the shadows and into the lamplight, and she gave a frightened squeak that she knew was about to burst into a terrified scream. But before it escaped her lips, her father whirled around: "Shh!" he hissed, and ushered her quickly inside the room. "Djaq – prepare for surgery."

She stood stock-still for a moment, overcome by the fact that a pale-skinned Englishman with the dreaded red cross emblazoned across his chest was standing in her house, and then hurried to obey her father's orders. As she prepared the surgical equipment, she kept her ears trained on the whispered conversation taking place at the door, one that was alternating swiftly between Arabic and English. The men seemed to be arguing about money, and the Christian man was pointing desperately to the man on the stretcher.

"We must work on him now!" her father insisted, cutting into the argument and gesturing Bassam inside.

"No!" his brother-in-law snapped. "Payment first. We do not treat infidels for nothing!"

"_You_ do not treat anyone at all," Syed replied calmly. "I am the physician here, and I say bring him inside."

Bassam and the Christian pushed past her uncle and hurriedly hefted the unconscious body onto the operating table. Safiyah stared down in awe. It was another white-skinned youth, no older than she was: his eyes shut, his face grey, and his breaths shallow and weak. At his side was a dark stain soaking through his white uniform to the bed below, but she was too shocked to even begin the procedure of cutting away the cloth to expose the wound.

"Bassam, light a lamp," her father was ordering. "And Djaq – wake up! I need you for this."

She roused herself and began to prepare the patient, watching out of the corner of her eye as her uncle and the Englishman argued – the latter finally handing over a purse of money before both stormed off in opposite directions. As her father cleaned his hands, she carefully snipped the man's tunic away, revealing the gory mess of blood and torn flesh underneath. The youth gave a small moan and whimpered something.

Bassam neared with a small lamp to light Syed's way, and then gave a start as he glimpsed her face up close. "You…you are not Djaq-"

"Quiet Bassam," Syed hissed, taking his place in front of the wound. "Give Djaq the lamp and leave us."

Confused and afraid, Bassam did as he was told. Safiyah didn't look up as the door closed, but her heart was thrumming in terror. The secret was out. Bassam would not tell anyone on purpose, but he was a simple man, and already she could imagine him accidentally revealing the family secret to a willing listener…

"Djaq, I need you to concentrate. Watch me carefully."

Her father's calm and stern voice cut through her turmoil. _It is night,_ she reminded herself. Bassam could not tell anyone until morning, and perhaps her father could explain the situation to him properly by then. For now, she was safe. Leaning over, she watched her father beginning to work, peeling back the layers of tissue and flesh to close the wounds from the inside out. Hypnotised by his work, Safiyah held the lamp with a steady hand, passed her father the necessary tools, and tried to memorise the movements his fingers made.

"You see, Safiyah?" he finally said, the only time he would ever acknowledge her true self in the confines of this room. "They are the same as us inside. No need to fear them."

She nodded, suddenly exhausted, as the last stitch was made, and glanced at the face of the man on the table. His face was still, but his eyes were open, and they were watching her. She clapped a hand across her own face, horrified that a stranger – a foreigner no less – had seen her. Feeling naked and horrified, and suddenly furious at her father for the indignity, she fled from the room into the darkness.

"Djaq," Syed called after her. "Don't tell your brother."

* * *

Her intense train of thought suddenly broke when something hit her on the shoulder. Glancing down, she saw a pebble that had fallen near her hand, and turning around she saw Allan gazing intently up at the leaves of the tree (_an oak tree,_ she told herself distractedly) that he was sitting under. She turned back to her work, but a moment later another pebble struck her lightly on the back of the head. She turned around and glared at the sight of Allan studiously examining his fingernails.

Yet just before she made a scathing comment that would put an end to his nonsense, she suddenly remembered the first time she had seen him. Much had been trying to convince her that the best way to escape the slave cage was to temporarily convert to Christianity – one would think that he thought unlocking the cage door was too simple to be truly effective – and she'd felt her brother's mischievous streak brim to the surface. Just as she'd goaded Much into renouncing his own God, Allan had grabbed his shoulder with timing that would have made the real Djaq proud. For that reason alone, she decided to indulge his insolence. For now.

"I am a good shot," she called to him. "And if I were to throw something at you it would be larger than a pebble."

He smiled back.

"Don't know what yer talkin' about."

"Is there nothing else you can do to amuse yourself?"

His smile widened further.

"Actually, yeah. Come 'ere. I'll show you a trick."

She scoffed disdainfully and shook her head, but was mildly alarmed when he got to his feet and began to approach her. Hesitantly rising to her feet, (keeping sword in hand) she ordered herself to maintain the upper-hand in whatever followed. She failed miserably, for as he neared, he unexpectedly stumbled and fell against her, pushing her back a step.

"Oops, sorry," he muttered, avoiding her gaze and pulling a small wooden ball from his pocket. He waved it across her face and danced it through his fingers before hiding it in his fist, twisted his hand dramatically through the air, and opened his hand with a flourish to reveal his empty palm.

"Now – where did the ball go?" he asked her.

She pretended to consider the question.

"Do you mean the ball you hid down your sleeve or the ball you put in my pocket when you pretended to trip?"

He blinked at her, then his shoulders sagged. She smiled and returned the ball hidden in her waistcoat pocket to the hand that had already shaken out an identical ball from its sleeve. Allan gazed at her speculatively.

"How'd you know?"

"I once knew someone who liked to play similar tricks. I'm afraid I know them all," she told him, shrugging apologetically.

He gave a disappointed sigh and returned the trinkets to his own pocket. She gazed at him for a moment, sensing that his restlessness went beyond simple boredom and wondering if it was safe to dig a little deeper. Before she made up her mind, he spoke again.

"So…lookin' forward to your next ambush?"

"It's not really something to look forward to, is it?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, and he gave her a bitter laugh in reply.

"You got that part right. According to Robin, we're supposed to _enjoy_ life or death situations."

He gazed at her intently, measuring the impact his words had on her, and she realized that he was trying to pull some answers from her in much the same way she was attempting to do to him. Determined to keep her thoughts to herself, she was deliberately vague.

"Still – it is for good reason, is it not?"

He shrugged.

"Suppose. Still doesn't mean it's fun to leap out in front of a moving carriage that could be loaded to the teeth with weapons."

She looked at him thoughtfully, deciding not to point out that carriages didn't have teeth, and considered sharing the idea that had been swirling through her head all that afternoon. If anyone were to listen to her plan for stirring up mischief, it was this one.

"Perhaps there is a way to even our chances. Have you never considered scaring your enemy before attacking it?"

"What'd'ya mean?"

"I have come to learn that Englishmen are rather…superstitious. It would be easy enough to arrange something that would scare them into giving us the answers Robin seeks without putting ourselves in too much danger."

A small smile flitted across his face, but then his eyes narrowed as another thought occurred to him. "Scared men are quicker to panic."

"They are also more likely to do as they are told."

There was another short silence before he spoke again: "What did you have in mind?"

She took a deep breath and continued: "If these men are to travel at night as Marian supposed, then we could use flaming torches and sounds in the trees to make them believe these woods are haunted. Or if they come in the day, it would take only a few rustling bushes to hide our numbers and make them believe there is an army of us lying in wait. I am sure between the six of us we could come up with more ideas."

As she had suspected, his eyes gleamed with the thought of playing such an elaborate trick. He gazed at her for a moment longer, half-smiling, half-serious, and she suddenly and unexpectedly faltered under the strange blueness of those eyes. In defence, she did what Djaq had always done when cornered in a conversation he didn't want to be a part of: fell instantly and totally silent. Allan shrugged and shifted his gaze to the space behind her and asked: "What do you think Will?"

She whirled around to see that Will had returned from his task on the roadside and had once again come upon her unawares. He had apparently been listening to most of their conversation, for he said:

"My brother pokes holes in practice arrows to make them whistle when he fires them – the sound is strange enough to scare those who don't know what it is."

"Yeah, yeah," Allan agreed. "My brother used to cover 'imself with leaves 'n twigs till he looked like a demon straight outta hell. Thing like that jumpin' out unawares is sure to put the fear of God into you."

The two of them began to exchange ideas, becoming more and more enthusiastic about the arrangement, before she quietly pointed out that it might be best to share the plan with Robin before putting it into action. Together they bounced off to do precisely this, with Djaq more than happy to let them take credit for the idea. After all, she probably shouldn't meddle in their leader's decisions at this early stage – but judging from the glance Robin gave her over Will and Allan's shoulders, she suspected he knew it was her anyway.

* * *

That night, after an afternoon of rigging the ambush point with various traps and tricks, (reminiscent of so many childhood games she could almost hear her brother's spirit laughing beside her) Allan and Will sat down either side of her by the campfire. The feeling that had warmed her throughout the chill of the day quickly evaporated. Completely unintentionally, she had done it again and been friendly when she should have been aloof. _Tomorrow,_ she promised herself. _Tomorrow I'll stick to the plan._


	7. The BestLaid Plans

_Hi everyone: there was another delay for this chapter, though it wasn't through procrastination (promise!) but because it just kept getting longer and longer without giving me any decent place to cut it. So hopefully you're all in the mood for a long, meaty chapter! _

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Plans**

She was on the last watch of the night, fighting back sleep and occasionally pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders in the dead silence of the early morning hours. Robin was with her, his decision being that two pairs of ears and ears were better than one when it came to waiting for this mysterious traveller, but since conversation had long since dwindled away, she let her thoughts return to the memories that a stray pebble had so rudely interrupted.

* * *

For a while Safiyah had been afraid to return to her father's operating room. Instead, she kept to her mother's rooms, letting Fatima fuss over her hair and skin and nails to such an extent that her mother eventually asked her if she'd finally fallen in love. She shook her head silently, the image of the wounded Christian wriggling in her mind like a loose tooth. How did her father find him? What would happen to him? How would he get home? Was he even still alive?

Often she'd find herself trailing past the door, listening for the sounds of movement within, but there was always silence. At mealtimes, her father steadily avoided her gaze, and she was afraid to even think about the subject in her brother's presence. Djaq could sense her agitation behind the layers of veil and gauze, and it took all her concentration to pretend that it was the line of Christian invaders creeping closer and closer to their home that had her so worried. Knowing her like he did, Safiyah doubted Djaq was fully convinced, but as he was also preoccupied with news of the approaching skirmishes, he did little to breech the subject. For that she was thankful, as it chilled her to think that the white-skinned stranger would not survive her brother's wrath should he discover who it was her father was keeping hidden in their own household. She held her breath every time Djaq needed to pass the door of the clinic, feeling only marginally satisfied in the knowledge that Djaq abhorred the room and never went inside. Still, it would take only a feverish dream…a call for help cried out in English...perhaps a tendency to sleepwalk…and he would be discovered. The whole situation was a keg of black powder waiting to be set alight, and she wanted nothing to do with any of it. If she just kept quiet, pretended that he wasn't there at all, let her father take care of it – perhaps somehow the stranger would leave as quietly and as discreetly as he had come.

Yet – inevitably – when her father was called away to the city hospital to tend to the influx of wounded soldiers carried in from the front line, it was to her that he turned. She was left with strict instructions to tend to the wounded man whilst he was away, and it was with frustration bordering on fury that she accepted her father's instructions.

"He is only a boy," Syed told her gently, beseechingly, firmly. "A boy who is a long way from home. There is no shame in this." Safiyah, who obeyed her father in all things, nodded reluctantly, but had never wished more than at that moment that she could have been born a boy.

For hours she agonised over whether she should approach him as Safiyah in her veils, or Djaq in his turban, and finally decided on Djaq…it would be safer, and surely Allah would not mind a wounded, half-delirious youth see her face, particularly if she was acting with her father's permission. On the morning her father departed and the household was still drowsing in their beds, she took a prepared dish of food and a flask of water into the dim surgery room, hoping she would find her patient still asleep. Not so. His eyes flickered open as she approached, and she realized that he could not be more than nineteen years old, with only the barest shade of stubble on his chin. Though she never did get around to asking how old he was, he was clearly younger than her – though the lack of hair on her own chin probably meant that he believed she was the younger of the two.

He gave a dry cough and then spoke as she quietly placed the food on the bedside table. She did not know much English, but could tell from his tone that he had asked a question, and recognised her father's name in amongst the foreign words. Clearly he was asking where he was.

She pointed to herself and offered a stilting reply.

"Father. Gone – work."

He nodded in what she hoped was understanding, and she moved to the injury at his side. He did not flinch as she carefully removed the stained bandages, unravelling them across his belly and gently pulling them out from underneath his back, surprised at how emotionless she felt. The male body was nothing new to her, her embarrassment at the sight of half-naked men having dissolved after countless surgeries, and there was nothing new about this one save the colour of his skin. However, as she checked her father's stitches and began replaced the old gauze with fresh bandages, his unblinking gaze began to unnerve her. She finished up quickly and then gestured to the food she'd brought. He hesitated, then began to speak in halting Arabic.

"You," he said, and stroked his wound, before saying: "Father," and twisting up the leftover bandages in his palm. She looked at him, baffled for a moment, and then began to comprehend – he was telling her that she was gentler than her father. She nodded, and poured him a drink from the flask into the cup that Syed had left for him, standing on the bedside table.

"Drink," she told him in Arabic.

He took the cup and raised it to his lips, saying a single word in his own language as he did so. She repeated him, guessing it was English for what she had just told him. He went on to take a few tentative bites of the food she'd brought him, and she hid a smile at the effect the spices were obviously having on his tender English tongue. He grimaced at her, then gestured to himself, making another unfamiliar sound.

"To – ma," she repeated carefully, assuming that it was his name, then pointed to herself.

"Djaq."

"Jack," he repeated, and offered her some of the food on his plate – a pointless gesture all things considered, but one that made her relax slightly.

"No. You eat," she told him, using up the last of her English vocabulary, and then left him. That was the beginning of it all.

* * *

In the days, then weeks, and then months that followed, she tended to Thomas even after her father returned home, and between the two of them and their shaky grasp of each other's languages, they began to communicate in an odd mix of sound and gesture which grew more comprehensible as each day passed. After they had pointed at everything in the room and telling each other its name in both languages, she brought down some of her father's books and they pored over the pictures, pointing and sounding out the words as they went. From what she could gather, he was a young nobleman whose family had fallen upon hard times, leading him to join the Holy Pilgrimage in the attempt to seek his fortune and restore what was lost to his family's holdings. In return, she told him news of the war outside the city, about how she helped her father in his work, even about how her brother (who remained nameless) wanted to join in the fighting. Most of the time though, she was happy to listen to him talk away his anxiety, gradually storing up new words, adding to her growing vocabulary…

Gradually Thomas regained his strength, taking hesitant steps around the room, one hand on what he thought was a boy's shoulder for balance. It scared her sometimes to have him so close to the secret, and yet strangely at ease when she realized that he was the type of boy to be delighted at such a ruse.

She eventually came to understand why she enjoyed his company: he was something that belonged entirely to her, removed from Fatima's primping and Djaq's constant agonising during their sparring sessions; even her father's pretence that she was his son in the confines of the darkened room. Thomas was simply glad of someone to look after him, talk to him, and assure him that in this place he was not expected to fight or kill in the name of some God that they were both having trouble understanding. Forbidden from leaving the room and forced to hide under blankets in the corner whenever Syed saw a new patient, Thomas looked to a youth called Djaq to keep him from going mad. For her part, she was more than happy to oblige, exchanging her time and attention for English words, descriptions of the world that existed outside her own country, and the sense that she was wanted for herself and not the skills that had been imposed upon her by others seeking their own self-gratification.

Syed had not told her much about the Christian who had brought Thomas to them, simply because there was little to tell. Syed had come across the two of them hiding in an alleyway; Thomas moaning softly and his companion frantically attempting to staunch the flow of blood from the wound. Presenting himself as a harmless old man and introducing himself in fractured English, Syed had ushered the Christians toward the house, stopping to seek aid from his brother-in-law and Bassam on the way. When Thomas had regained consciousness, he recalled nothing past the Saracen warrior plunging a scimitar into his side, and the gush of blood and hot pain that followed. Whoever Thomas's saviour had been, he could never remember, and after so many months of coalescence in Syed's household, it seemed unlikely that the soldier would ever return. _If he's even still alive,_ Safiyah thought sadly. Either way, it meant that it would be up to her and Syed to smuggle Thomas back to his own people.

She was not sure what her father intended to do, or what Thomas's own plans for the future were, but for the present, she simply let herself enjoy the sense that she doing more to regain peace by befriending an Englishman than her brother could do in his violent desire to drive the invaders from their shores. But by the time Thomas was back to full strength, the problem that hung over both of them could remain silent no longer. Finally, she opened the topic for discussion.

"What is it you want to do when you leave here?"

He was silent, looking up sadly from the bed.

"I have to go, don't I…" It was a statement, not a question, and she shrugged helplessly.

"You cannot stay here forever." She hesitated, and then ploughed ahead. "But I do not want you to go."

Thomas gave a sad smile. "You're a good friend Djaq. And I never thought I'd say that about a Saracen – I mean, not after what my people came here to do."

He shifted, a little embarrassed, and Safiyah was silent, grappling with her understanding of the word he'd used. Could she really be considered his friend when she kept the most fundamental part of herself hidden from him? Or was it perhaps a truer friendship when one was valued for their companionship instead of their gender?

She shook her head in confusion, and sat next to him wearily. Misinterpreting her mood, Thomas clapped on her back reassuringly.

"I know I can't stay," he told her. "But my people probably think I'm dead by now. Maybe I could take this chance to go home…?"

He sounded so young when he said it, his eyes so wide and hopeful, that Safiyah's heart ached for him. It was selfish of her to keep him here, not to mention impossible. But to get him home, or at least on a ship bound for England… that much she could do for him. She had already formulated a plan to get him to the relative safety of Acre, an idea born out of her own disguise as Djaq.

Her uncle was a merchant, and every week he would take a range of supplies from his warehouses in the city to the port. It would be simple enough for Syed to insist that he allow a young man to accompany him for the journey – a young man dressed in Muslim robes, his skin darkened by dye, and who would say little for the duration of the trip so as not to give away his English accent. As she relayed the plan to Thomas, his eyes took on a faraway glaze, and his mouth lifted in a dreamy smile. He was thinking of English sky and soil, of his family and his home, of all the things he'd told her about in their months together. She wondered suddenly if he had a sweetheart waiting. He hadn't mentioned one, but that droopy smile on his face was certainly reminiscent of Djaq when he was besotted with his latest love – a look, she realized sadly, that she hadn't seen on her brother's face in some time.

"It is up to you on when you want to leave," Safiyah told him. "My uncle's journey is every two weeks."

Thomas nodded thoughtfully, then looked around. "I'll be sad to leave this place…though happy to get out of this room. How can I ever thank you? You and your father?"

"My father always said that the best gift a patient can give his physician is to live a long and healthy life. To make sure all his efforts were not in vain."

He laughed, and clapped her on the back again. "I'd be very happy to follow those instructions."

She smiled and blinked back tears – _boys don't cry_ – she told herself firmly, and told him: "Then I shall tell my father to prepare the dye, and I'll bring you some of my bro – some of my clothes."

He nodded.

That was the plan – but like most of the plans Safiyah had for her life, it did not go as she anticipated.

* * *

A noise in the darkness broke her out of her sad reverie, and she glanced over at Robin. He looked back, and they both strained their ears toward the road – a steady trundling sound filtered through the darkness – the unmistakable sound of carriage wheels rolling across the forest floor. Silently Robin rose to his feet and disappeared into the foliage. A few moments later he reappeared, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Wake the others," he whispered, grabbing her arm and steering her in the direction of the camp. "I'm going to run ahead and prepare." He shot off into the forest like an arrow from his own bow, and Djaq staggered much less gracefully back to the campsite to rouse the others.

She awoke Much first of course, though it took several rough shakes, but he made so much noise in getting up that the ruckus woke John at the same time. It took only the briefest of touches on Will's shoulder for him to open his eyes and leap to his feet, and as the others sorted out their weapons and clothes in the drizzly night, she glanced around for Allan. For reasons she couldn't fathom, Allan seemed to prefer to sleep away from the warmth of the campfire and the other outlaws, and she remembered that on this night he'd hunkered down among the roots of the large oak tree. Scampering among the raised roots, she finally spied him sprawled out under an overhanging tree branch and reached down to shake his shoulder firmly.

He frowned, shifted, and then opened his eyes, a sly grin creeping across his face as he realised who it was.

Before any lewd comment crossed his lips, she reached up and grabbed the branch above his head, shaking it firmly and deriving much satisfaction from the outraged yelp that followed the downpour of rain onto the man below.

"The ambush!" she hissed, and turned around, letting him catch up on his own.

* * *

Trusting the wind through the leaves to hide the sound of their passage, the outlaws chose speed over stealth in reaching the ambush point. Robin was already there, and gestured to the others to gather around.

"It's a four-person carriage with one driver. Can't see how many people are inside, but there aren't any escorts. Get ready and take your positions."

There was a flurry of activity from the others, and Djaq leaned herself against a tree and concentrated on lighting the two torches that had been hidden in a hollow log, struggling against the wind and cold. She could hear the other outlaws around her, sorting out their assorted props and assuming the hiding places that they'd agreed upon earlier in the day. Finally, the flint sparked between her fingers, and fire caught hold of the torches pushed into the damp earth before her. Pulling her hood over her head, she made sure the flames were hidden behind the tree, and listened intently for the sounds of the oncoming carriage.

It took several minutes of waiting in the rain and darkness for the carriage to trundle into earshot, and she glimpsed a darkened shape on the road below her. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for her cue. A few moments later, she heard the sound of something heavy crashing to the ground – the large fallen log that John had lugged from the forest and propped up amongst the other trees had just been pushed down onto the road. A horse neighed in fright and she heard the eerie, high-pitched whistling of arrows pierced with holes that Will and Allan were currently shooting into the trees.

She peeked around the tree and noticed that the driver had jumped down from his seat and opened the carriage door, looking around suspiciously and gesturing helplessly at the fallen tree before them. A darkened figure poked his seat out of the carriage door as the driver made the sign of the cross upon his chest. At her side Much began to pull on several strings – causing the canopy overhead to sway threateningly – and Djaq began to creep forward with the torches, letting them flicker ominously through the foliage. She kept them far away from her body, lest the men decide to shoot some arrows, but as far as she could see both men were weapon-less. Out the corner of her eye, she could see Will and Allan creep forward with their own torches, and in the light that they created, she could see their faces: Will was intent and focused on the task before him; Allan meanwhile, was having the time of his life with all the theatrics.

She took the opportunity to wave the torches a little more frantically, to match the similar display that Allan was putting on, and glanced down at the road again. The passenger had emerged entirely from the carriage, and – as far as she could see – was gazing about warily – whilst the thoroughly spooked driver was edging toward the open door of the carriage.

Robin took that moment to make his grand entrance, stepping out into the road wrapped in Little John's giant cloak with several blankets stuffed underneath in order to give him a strange, misshapen air.

"Halt!" he cried, deepening his voice and raising his arms in the air menacingly. "Who goes there? What is your business in Nottingham? Tell us now and we will let you pass!"

The driver gave a yelp and sprung into the carriage, but to Djaq's alarm, several more men emerged from its interior. They were each holding something in their hands…she couldn't quite make it out…

But her preoccupation with the men dropped out of her mind like a bird shot from the sky when their leader spoke.

"You, I presume, are Robin Hood, the one-time Lord of Locksley and Earl of Huntington."

It was not the eerie confidence or wry humour with which the voice spoke, nor the fact that it displayed no fear despite the circumstance its owner found himself in that made her drop her torches in shock. It was that she recognised the voice, its commanding and regal tone ringing out loudly over the wind and rain and the beating of her own frantic heart.

_No, it can't be_, she though, stumbling back from the torches hissing at her feet. _Not here. How is it possible…?_

She could hear Robin's voice now, and though she was too shocked to register his words, she could tell he was disconcerted at the stranger's demeanour. As she moved back, poised somewhere between rushing forward or fleeing in terror, her hands fluttering pathetically from her hair to her heart in horror, another noise cut through her indecision. A strange fizzing noise, very faint, followed by a large bang and a piercing shaft of light that lit up the forest around them for the briefest of moments. Around her, she could sense the other outlaws reel back in fright and hear Robin shouting from the road. Dazed by shock and awe, a small voice in the back of her mind murmured: _black powder,_ as several more bangs and confusing bursts of light flashed around her. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the other outlaws begin to retreat, bewildered and spooked. Their tentative moments, along with Robin's faraway call of "retreat!" caused her swirling mind to finally react, and she turned on her heel and rushed into the darkness of the trees; running more from the sound of that voice than from the confusion of the black powder explosions.

For a few minutes there was only the sound of the wind whipping past her ears, the flurry of the foliage as she crashed through it and her own panting as she struggled to put as much distance between herself and the terrible voice as possible. She wasn't sure how far she ran, as shock and panic took its toll on her reason, but eventually she found herself slowing. Gradually she came to a stop, gasping for breath and concealing herself behind the nearest tree.

Taking into account her latest situation, she realized that she was not only hopelessly lost, but more than likely separated from the other outlaws in the vastness of Sherwood Forest. She'd lost track of the others, though it seemed unlikely that any of them had managed to keep together in the ensuing chaos. And there was always the possibility of the travellers following the outlaws into the trees…

A sinking feeling that felt close to despair crept across her, but she stiffened at the sound of movement nearby. Someone was close, shuffling about cautiously to her left. For a few moments she was silent, her hand on the hilt of her sword, hoping for some indication that it was one of the boys. In the sudden silence, she knew she couldn't move without giving herself away, but as the minutes stretched by, she grew more and more impatient. Perhaps she should take a chance. Perhaps she should make a run for it. Perhaps she should do what her brother would have undoubtedly done in this situation and leap out with her sword flashing.

Finally she summoned up her courage, prepared for flight, and called out softly:

"Who is there?"

"Bloody hell Djaq, I thought you were one of that lot on the road chasin' me through half the ruddy forest."

Allan. She leaned back, exhausted with relief, as he continued to rant in the darkness about witchcraft and magic and how a man couldn't expect to keep body and soul together in the midst of such goings on.

"Allan? Djaq?"

She stifled a shriek as another voice pierced the darkness to her right, followed the soft sound of approach. Will appeared out of the gloom and peered anxiously at the two of them.

"Are you two all right?" he asked.

"Yes fine," Djaq told him, as Allan snorted.

"Speak for yourself, mate!"

Ignoring him, Djaq turned to Will. "Are you alone? Where are the others?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I just ran. I think I saw John and Much head northward. Not sure about Robin."

"It's close to morning," Allan said. "No use going after any of 'em now. I say we hunker down till first light."

Djaq saw Will nod in agreement and her shoulders slumped.

_So far_, she told herself wryly, _your plan is working perfectly._


	8. Locksley

_Hello everyone, here's chapter eight, in which the plot thickens...thanks to all my readers, especially those that take the time to comment: Keeping Amused, soulprovider, SereneTeaCup, Derry and City Light Lyrics. Big thanks to you guys!_

**Chapter Eight: Locksley**

She forced herself to stay awake for the remainder of the night, huddled underneath her cloak and shaking off sleep. Next to her, Will's eyes were closed and his head drooped, and next to him slouched Allan, who was supposed to be on watch, even though she suspected he'd fallen asleep as well. Had it been Much, or even John, sitting next to her, she would have let her head fall against his shoulder to make herself more comfortable, but that wasn't something she was going to try with either one of these two.

The forest gradually came to life around her, the animals and birds of the forest awakening even before the sun rose in order to start their daily business. She watched through bleary eyes as a strange bushy-tailed creature that looked like a large grey rat scurried up a nearby tree, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste, suddenly missing heat and the sun and the expanse of the desert.

Movement next to her signalled Will's awakening, and his sharp kick into Allan's shin roused their dozing watchman.

"All clear," he announced, sitting up straight. "No sign of anyone."

Will and Djaq exchanged a glance and rose to their feet.

"We should return to the camp," Will said. "But the others have probably moved on by now. If they even went back at all. It's more likely they'd find a hiding place farther away from the road."

"Still, it's a good startin' place," Allan said, straightening his cloak. "Though we should watch out for them witches. They shot fire from their hands!"

"No, no, it was not fire," Djaq said. "It is just a mixture of chemicals. When it is combined with heat it explodes and causes…"

Even in the darkness she could see their blank faces.

"Never mind," she sighed. After all, perhaps it was better these two believed black powder was some sort of magic. Her father had always said fear of the unknown was the most dangerous type of fear there was, but it certainly meant that neither one would be foolish enough to mess with it should they come across it again.

* * *

The three of them trudged through the cold and the early morning darkness, their hoods up and their heads down, the drizzle falling through forest canopy and onto their cloaks. Occasionally Allan would make a sarcastic comment about the pleasant weather, but for the most part all three of them were lost in nervous, gloomy silence. Will was leading the way, sometimes pointing out landmarks to her – a tree, a stream, a rock – all of which she carefully noted and stored away in her memory, when suddenly he stopped, causing her to bump into him.

"Shh," he warned her, glancing behind to Allan and gesturing for him to halt. The two were still, intently opening their ears to the noises of the forest. Suddenly, they heard the reason for Will's alarm: the sounds of someone – maybe several someones – heading toward them.

"Maybe it is the others," she whispered as they moved closer together.

"No," Will whispered. "We're moving southward, and I know I saw John and Much run north. They're coming at us from the wrong direction."

"Robin then…"

Will shook his head.

"If it was Robin, we wouldn't be able to hear him at all."

All three glanced uneasily at each other through the cover of darkness that the morning was swiftly stealing from them, and their hands drifted to their weapons.

"We don't know how many there are," Allan whispered. "We have to hide while we still have the chance."

"No. I want to see who they are," Will hissed back.

The two men glared at each other for a moment, a tense moment of opposition crackling between them. She froze with indecision. Should she tell them? Would they listen? She opened her mouth nervously, uncertain of what exactly she was going to say, when Will visibly backed down before Allan's blue glare.

"Fine," he muttered. "But _where_ do we hide? There's not much overgrowth in this part of the forest."

Djaq glanced around, conscious of the heightened sound of approach, and realised that the trees were indeed sparsely populated in this part of the forest, giving way to smaller seedlings and open spaces. But Allan pointed to a large oak tree, its thick branches spreading out and upward toward the sky.

"Climb it," he ordered. "No one ever bothers to look up."

Will cast his eyes up the tree and nodded curtly.

"Quickly then. And _quietly_."

Ignoring the plummeting feeling in her stomach as she ran her eyes up the towering tree, she swiftly followed Allan and watched as he began to hoist himself onto the lower boughs. She was not built for tree climbing, having neither height nor upper-body strength, so it was with reluctance that she accepted Allan's proffered hand and scrambled up next to him. For the next few moments she concentrated solely on climbing her first tree without slipping, falling, or in any other way making a fool of herself, till she and Allan teetered on a high branch, his hand on her shoulder to steady her.

It was then that they realised Will was not with them. Allan cursed under his breath.

"He's gone to see who they are," he muttered angrily, close to her ear. "Should have known he'd do that."

"He probably thought he would not get a good look at them from up here…will he be alright?"

Her stomach was twisted in knots. If something happened to him…if she had just admitted what she knew…

"Yeah…yeah…he'll be alright," Allan answered, just as much to himself as to her. "He's good at sneaking around."

"Yes," she admitted. "I know."

Sure enough, it was only a few moments of uneasy waiting before the branch beneath their feet began to shudder slightly under the weight of a third person climbing toward them. Will's face suddenly emerged through the leaves, his lean body following as he hoisted himself up and perched on the branch opposite them. She could feel Allan's tense body relax next to her, and his hand suddenly slipped from her shoulder to her waist.

She opened her mouth to say something scathing, but was distracted by the troubled look Will was giving her. He had seen them. Could he have guessed? No, no, that was impossible – but of course, now he suspected something. How could he not?

Again she opened her mouth to speak, but Will shook his head firmly and pointed downwards. All three of them froze at the sound of movement below. The strangers were moving slowly and quietly through the trees, unused to the leaf-strewn terrain and so taking extra precautions as a result. Her heart constricted painfully in her chest as their conversation filtered up through the leaves, confirming her worst fears. She craned her neck, attempting to catch a glimpse of them though the leaves. He wasn't there…just his men…but where was _he_?

The men conferred for a few moments more, and then – to the horror of the tree-dwellers – they settled down where they were, passing around food and drink, and then unravelling their small mats upon the damp forest floor in order to pray. After a few minutes, Allan leaned down and whispered in her ear:

"How long does this go on for?"

She cast him a grim look.

"A while."

As the soft chanting continued, Djaq closed her eyes and let the familiar rhythm of the Arabic prayers wash over her. The lulling sensation passed throughout her whole body, bringing with it memories of home: the calming vastness of the desert, the shuffle of birds, the softness of her mother's fingers through her hair, her brother's voice…She should have slept when she had the chance, for now she felt her body drift beyond her control as fatigue took its toll. She had been too strung-up that was all, too painfully aware of the presence of two men she didn't feel totally comfortable with to let sleep steal away the defence of consciousness, too afraid that the combined efforts of the dark and the cold would cause her to shuffle closer to them…

But now, as the dim sun gradually lit up the forest, as voices from home trailed up to her, as Allan's arm crept around her waist, she could feel herself slipping…

* * *

She awoke with a jump, and then jumped again – this time in alarm – when she realised the precarious balancing act surrounding her. The dawn had broken whilst she slept, and Allan's arm was around her waist to prevent her from falling, while Will leaned forward to brace her shoulder with his hand, giving Allan some leverage on her dead weight. Instinctively she jerked away from the two of them, and a strange, clumsy dance played itself out as each one fought to regain their balance.

One by one they righted themselves, and – embarrassed beyond words – Djaq firmly turned her face from the two of them. Aware of how uncomfortable she was, the men cast uneasy glances at each other.

"They've gone now, anyways," Allan said. "We just thought we'd let you sleep. You haven't been out long."

She nodded silently, aware of their chivalrous gesture and hating it. They should have forced her to stay awake. _She_ should have forced herself to stay awake. Almost three weeks amongst them and they were still according her special treatment.

The three of them began their descent, the men careful not to help or touch her in any way, and Djaq breathed a sigh on relief on reaching solid ground in one piece. But now another problem had suddenly presented itself, and she shifted uncomfortably.

"Those three men were Saracens," Will said, gazing at her intently. "Did you know them?"

Djaq forced herself to remain calm, and raised an eyebrow.

"You assume that because I am a Saracen, I must know every other Saracen that lives?"

He blinked, and then wriggled uncomfortably.

"Sorry. I just thought…"

"Well, at least you can tell us what they were saying," Allan interrupted, bouncing on the spot.

Trying futilely to hide her bodily discomfort, Djaq answered: "They are going to Nottingham to meet with their leader who went on ahead with more of his party in the carriage. The three we saw decided to travel on foot because…because they wanted to hunt in the forest."

She hadn't lied, not really. She just hadn't told the whole truth.

Will wrinkled his brow in confusion, moving from one foot to the other in an agitated manner.

"They must have been the same men from last night. Somehow their leader got past John's fallen log…got past Robin…"

To ease his mind, she spun him a white lie. "They did not mention killing anyone. I'm sure he's alright."

The three of them looked at each other, noticing clearly for the first time that each was shifting uncomfortably on the spot. In that moment they realised that they shared the same problem. Silently they turned their backs on each other and hurried off in different directions to find suitable underbrush in which to release their aching bladders.

A few minutes later they returned, looked at each other again, and suddenly all the stress and discomfort and strangeness of the past twelve hours unexpectedly purged itself in three hysterical fits of laughter, brought on by the rather literal feeling of relief. It went on for quite a while, three distinct sets of laughter echoing out amongst the trees, and as soon as they thought the outburst was coming to an end, one would catch the eye of another, and set all three of them off again. Djaq gave herself up to it, almost tearful with the release that such laughter accorded her.

Once they'd finally regained control of themselves (after several false starts, in which an odd-sounding snort from Allan or a tiny squeak from Djaq would make Will burst out laughing all over again), they forced their attention back to the task at hand.

"Look," Allan said impatiently, wiping away his grin. "We still gotta figure out what to do next. And now I'm getting hungry."

"We need to check the camp," Will insisted. "The others may be back there by now, waiting for us. And we have to pass on Djaq's information."

"There's no food there. We ate the last of the supplies last night. And by "we", I'm talking about Much."

"I suppose Locksley is close…"

"Then that's where we're going! Robin always keeps Locksley well-stocked. They're sure to spare food for some heroic outlaws."

"We're supposed to _give_ to the poor, not beg scraps off them."

Once again, the two men were caught in a glare, but this time it was Allan who backed down.

"Alright, we'll head back to camp. But _then_ we go to Locksley."

As Will had predicted, the camp was indeed bereft of the other outlaws, though the food supplies were not at depleted as Allan had believed. Silently the three of them devoured the remains of a loaf of bread, the men allowing her to have a few extra slices in exchange for her portion of salted pork. After a quick search to make sure there were no secret messages or instructions left behind, and a couple of nervous glances at the ominous dark-grey clouds that were forming overhead, they once more headed out into the expanse of the forest.

"Storm coming," she heard Will mutter under his breath.

* * *

He was right, and within a few hours of walking through what felt like endless trees, the clouds darkened the sky and rain began to fall in what Djaq could only describe as an onslaught. It was nothing like the first rainfall, the one that had seemed to wash away her grief and pain. This one wanted to hurt her. It beat down like a living thing, forcing the three of them to shout to be heard, obscuring their vision and drenching them within seconds. Thunder rolled overhead, frighteningly loud, and the ground beneath her swiftly became a slippery, dangerous mess of mud and leaves.

"We need cover!" Will yelled over the fury. "We can't keep going on in this!"

"Where's the nearest cave?" Allan cried back.

"Miles away!"

"No…no it ain't. I know a closer one."

Even though shouting destroyed most of the nuances of speech, Djaq imagined she could still here a trace of reluctance in his tone, but there was nothing either she or Will could do when he took the lead and steered them in a southerly direction.

After a few minutes of struggling through mud and pounding rain, her only sight the rain-splattered hood of Allan in front of her, they came to a ravine that was concealed amongst the tall trees. Dimly, she saw Allan gesture toward a small crack in the rock face, and she hurried forward, hunched over.

The mouth of the cave was low, and the interior a little cramped, but the three of them crowded in, desperate to get out of the gale. The morning had passed by swiftly as they'd been struggling through the drenched forest, and it was three tired outlaws who collapsed into the clammy warmth of the cave.

"Does Robin know about his place?" Will asked once he caught his breath.

"Not…really," Allan replied reluctantly.

"Why not?" Will demanded. "A place like this could have come in handy."

Allan searched the air for words.

"I just…I thought…look, I've been using his place for years, long before I met you lot. Is it a crime that I wanted to keep it to myself? Besides, it's not a secret anymore, is it? We're all out of the rain, aren't we?"

"This could have been a valuable hiding place," Will told him angrily. "Instead you've been keeping it a secret!"

Suddenly exhausted beyond belief, Djaq spoke up: "Oh, quiet you two!"

To her amazement, they actually complied, and she shrugged off her sopping wet coat and hunched down against the cave wall.

Quietly, the men followed her lead, and Will took up a seat near the cave entrance, looking out at the sheets of water gushing past.

"This storm may pass soon," he said. "We could still get to Locksley today."

"Good," Allan replied, one hand on his stomach. "Because I'm still hungry."

He ignored Will's glare, and shut his eyes. Djaq stifled a yawn, feeling that a nap wasn't such a bad idea. A warm cave was certainly a better place to nod off than that dratted tree, and there was enough room that she could curl up without touching anyone else. She closed her eyes, letting sleep catch up with her again.

* * *

Djaq's tearstained face looked up at her.

"It's not fair!" he whined to his sister. "Why can't I do it properly?"

Safiyah sighed and patted his shoulder. "You've only been at it for a week. You can't expect to be a master straight away."

Her brother gazed sullenly at the wooden practice sword in his hand.

They were twelve, Djaq's lessons had begun in earnest, and it was clear that they were not going well. The twins had met in their secret meeting place: the tiny courtyard wedged between the women's quarters and the garden wall. It had been designed at the last minute by the architect of the house, finding that there was a space in his plans that needed filling, and even though it provided thoroughfare between the women's rooms and the kitchens, it was seldom used in favour of the quicker passage through the house itself. And so the courtyard – the afterthought of a somewhat absent-minded designer – became the private world of the twins, who would warm their bodies on the flagstones, escape their tutors, plan the practical jokes that were systematically played on each member of the household, and discuss what the future held for them both. After today, it would have yet another purpose.

"All the other boys are better than me. I just can't _do_ it."

Safiyah rolled her eyes. It wasn't that he wasn't good at it – it was that he didn't _want_ to do it. Djaq was more interested in daydreaming, in mooning over different women of various ages, of practicing slight of hand and magic tricks, of making all the other children laugh. When it came to military training, Djaq's head was full of heroic charges and glorious battles, and not the hard physical work and discipline it took to reach that stage. But he had made his decision, the only one available to him, for he cringed in horror from his father's surgery, his books on human anatomy, and the sight of blood. How he could glorify one field of occupation while avoiding the other, when both relied so heavily on the same elements of violence and pain, was a paradox of her brother's mind that Safiyah had long since given up trying to understand.

"Here, let me see," she said, holding out her hand for the sword. She took the wooden hilt and grasped it in her hand, swishing it back and forth through the air.

"There…is this right?" she asked.

Her brother shook his head glumly.

"No. Your grip has to be firm, and your hand close to the hilt."

He got to his feet and adjusted her hand. "That's right. Now try to block me."

He snapped a spindly branch off a sickly-looking tree growing in the corner of the yard and swiped it in her direction. She reacted instinctively and the sword hit the stick with a satisfying _thwack._

"That's right!" Djaq said, surprised. "That was good!"

"I'll try on you," she offered, and lunged in his direction. Djaq raised the stick and swatted her sword away.

"See, it's not so hard," she told him. "Sometimes it helps if you've got someone to teach. It helps you remember what you've been told."

He gave a tiny, hopeful smile.

"Maybe I could teach you."

She looked at him sceptically.

"Djaq – you can't teach a girl how to fight. I was thinking more of one of the serving boys in the house."

"No! No, it has to be you!" he cried, suddenly frantic. "Please, Saffy! It has to be you!"

She groaned internally. She didn't want to learn sword-fighting, not even for his sake. Her parents kept her busy enough, what with her father's book studies and her mother's tutoring in the feminine arts. She got precious little time to escape to the peace of Bassam's house, away from the constant bustle and noise of her own household. Besides, she was a peaceful person at heart. She didn't want to learn how to kill people – she was too much in awe of her father's ability to put them together again.

But Djaq was so upset about this – more upset than she'd ever seen him. Under his large brown eyes, she felt herself weakening.

"All right," she sighed. "But not for long."

"Oh no," he assured her. "Just for a week or so."

Naturally, the lessons went on for years, and the clearest memory she had of her brother was the first time she'd bested him, sending his practice sword spinning across the courtyard. He'd looked at her with despair in his eyes and said: "You should have been the boy Safiyah."

* * *

He began whimpering and shuffling before her…but no, he hadn't done that…he'd simply trudged back into the house. So why was her vision filling with the sight of her brother gasping and whimpering before her, as though he was dying a soft and quiet death? Something was pulling her away from him, a noise that was drawing her up toward consciousness. She opened her eyes and glanced around – Will was still crouched at the mouth of the cave, looking out at the rain. Next to her was Allan, fast asleep, and apparently having a nightmare. She looked down at him in alarm: his skin was pale, his face creased, and he was muttering something under his breath. She couldn't believe the level of his distress: his forehead beaded with sweat, his body occasionally twitching. She looked up at Will again.

He was looking at her uncomfortably.

"It happens now and then. We can all hear him."

So this was why he chose to sleep apart from the group, she realised. For a few moments she looked at him, wondering if she should wake him up or simply let the dream run its course. Will didn't seemed inclined to do anything, his gaze having turned once again to the rain, and just as she was about to lay a tentative hand on his shoulder, Allan suddenly gave a sigh and settled into silence.

She gave a small sigh of relief and glanced up at Will again.

"How often does that happen?" she asked, more out of curiosity than anything else. Perhaps thinking that she could provide him with a prognosis, Will considered the question carefully.

"Maybe once a week. Sometimes more."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"What do you think he dreams about?"

Will shrugged.

"Don't know. He's never loud enough to really hear what he's saying. Maybe his family. He never talks about them."

She looked down at the sleeping man and then up at Will again.

"What about your family? Where are they?"

He gazed at her intently for a moment, and then took a slight breath.

"My father and brother are in Scarborough. My mother's dead."

Without thinking, as the subject of death had never been made her uncomfortable, she asked: "How did she die?"

"From hunger. She died to feed my brother and me. We didn't realise she was…"

He drifted off into silence, his eyes moving from her face to the wall of the cave.

"My mother is dead too."

His eyes darted back to her, and she could see him struggling with the question in his mind. She answered it for him:

"My home was destroyed by crusaders. Only I…and one other…managed to escape. She helped us. But she couldn't get out herself."

His expression was unreadable, and in the absence of anything else worth looking at, they gazed at each other in silence. No more details arose as to the nature of their mothers' deaths, but for now, the basics were enough; the shared knowledge that both were sitting there looking at each other because two mothers had died for the sake of their children.

Their reverie was broken by Allan waking up with a jump and a groan.

"Urrghh. What time is it?"

"Past noon," Will told him.

Outside, the storm had ended, though the sky still looked murky and grey. Allan crawled over to the entrance and peered out.

"Stopped raining," he told them unnecessarily. "I hear Locksley calling!"

This time Will gave him a small smile.

"All right then," he sighed. "Let's go."

* * *

It was a strange moment when Djaq looked down on the village of Locksley, knowing it to be Robin's home. Despite his lofty speeches on England and King Richard, it was this small community that he really fought for, a smaller version of his entire world, his reason and his reward. It was a lovely place, even in the grim weather, and she hoped one day she would be able to visit it under better circumstances.

The three of them, their hoods drawn over their heads, crept quietly through the houses, their eyes alert for any members of the garrison that often patrolled the village. Yet today, they seemed to be in luck, for there were no sign of any soldiers; the cold weather providing simple incentive for them to seek shelter.

Will lead the way, stopping only briefly to point out a modest dwelling and tell Djaq: "That was my house," before tapping on a small door on the side of an even smaller cottage. A few moments passed, there was the sound of movement within, and a young woman with large eyes looked out, her face instantly relaxing when she saw Will.

"Will!" she whispered. "Everything alright?"

"Alright," he answered. "Can we come in?"

The woman glanced past him and saw Allan and Djaq's shrouded figures, and obligingly stepped back to allow them entrance. They filed passed into the small room, Djaq glanced around curiously. It was the first English home she'd ever been in, and having giving the matter absolutely no thought, she had no idea what to expect. The roof was thatched, and there were various herbs and flowers hanging down in bunches from the rafters. A fire crackled in a small stone fireplace, and the floor under her feet was a blend of packed earth and layers of straw. There was a small table, several stools, a cupboard leaning against the wall, and a half-open doorway leading to another room. It didn't smell particularly nice, though Djaq supposed that might be because of the rain.

Lost in her observations, she was only dimly aware of Allan talking:

"We were waylaid by at least twelve guards out in the forest and had to fight our way out. We've been running all night, through all that rain. And you're not going to believe this, but I swear it's true – there were men who could shoot _fire_ from their _hands_."

The three of them grouped around the small table, and the woman bustled about, fetching wooden cups and a pitcher of water. Allan sat up a little straighter, no doubt hoping that food would follow, and Will - sensing that he was about to voice his request - gave him a warning nudge. Seated between Allan and Will, Djaq hesitantly raised her hands to her hood and pulled it down to properly expose her face. Surely she would be safe enough here.

The woman turned around, and gave a slight start on seeing Djaq properly for the first time, her surprise quickly transforming into a quizzical expression. On either side of her, the men shifted.

"It's alright Kate," Will said. "She-"

In the same moment the word left his mouth, he realized his mistake, and at once began to cough viciously.

"He's with us," Allan said over the noise. "Meet Hood's new physician. Djaq."

Kate blinked, and composed herself, apparently oblivious to Will's slip of the tongue.

"No, I…I don't mean to be rude," she said. "I was just surprised…did you come with the others?"

Djaq's heart began to thump.

"Others?" she asked.

"The other Saracens. They were here late this morning."

She was acutely aware of Will and Allan exchanging glances, and her hands clenched.

"Did they hurt anyone?" Will asked.

"Oh no," Kate said, her eyes wide. "They came into the village with supplies - plenty of food for each household. They just wanted some help. That's why I thought you were with them." She gave Djaq a nod.

"Food?" Allan asked.

Kate smiled. "I'll get some – it's just out in the storehouse."

"Wait," Will called as she headed for the door. "What did they want help with?"

Kate turned at the door.

"They're looking for a woman. A Saracen woman."

It had started raining again, and the woman darted out quickly in order to reach the storehouse before it got any worse. Inside the cottage, there was silence. Djaq looked down at the table top, instinctively hunching her shoulders and wishing she'd never taken off her hood.

Allan cleared his throat.

"A Saracen woman," he said. "That wouldn't be _you_, now, would it?"


	9. Khalid

_Hi readers, here's chapter nine, just for you! Thanks again to all my reviewers and those that have placed this story on favourites/alerts._

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Khalid**

Looking back now, she realised that it had been her last day of peace. Regardless of the news of war that filtered throughout the house every hour, spoken in heavy tones by her father and his guests, and then whispered among the servants, it had always seemed that no Christian marauder could ever cross the threshold of her home.

Except for Thomas of course, but he hardly counted. He was back to full-strength now, pacing restlessly around the surgical room and impatiently counting down the days till her uncle's departure. She felt a wave of irritation when she saw it. Did he have to act quite so eager to abandon her here? The last time she had felt like this, she'd been a little girl, forced to release the fledging bird that she'd found fallen from the nest and who she'd nursed over a period of weeks. She'd wanted to keep the tiny creature, but her father had pointed out that birds weren't meant to be kept in cages – not forever, anyway. Now she recognised the same mournful sense of loss that she'd felt when the tiny bird had taken wing for the first time – and the loneliness that came when a dependant patient no longer needed her care. Once Thomas left, a piece of her freedom would go with it, for she knew her days as Djaq were coming to an end. She had overheard her parents' conversations, seen the resignation in her father's eyes and the blend of sadness and delight in her mother's. The time was drawing swiftly upon her.

It was inevitable, she supposed. Certainly she was old enough. But as she watched Thomas try on her brother's clothes and smear sweet-smelling dye over his hands, exclaiming like a child over the effect it had on darkening his skin, she felt herself envious at his escape – from the war, from his duties, from this place – from everything.

"Only two more days," he told her, his eyes closing in rapture. In spite of herself, she smiled at his expression.

"Do you remember your story?" she asked him.

"Oh yes – I was an apprentice in this house, but found that the life of a physician wasn't the life for me. Now I'm travelling to Acre with a merchant caravan, but the horrors that I witnessed here mean that I don't like to do a lot of talking. Oh, that reminds me – shouldn't I have a name?"

She blinked.

"You do have a name."

"No," he laughed. "I mean a Saracen name. Just so your uncle knows what to call me."

"Khalid," she blurted without thinking, and instantly regretted it. _Why that name?_ she scolded herself. But it was too late to take it back now – Thomas was testing it out on his tongue with a smile on his face.

"Khalid," he said. "Khalid. Hello Djaq, my name is Khalid." She jumped in fright at his impersonation of a Saracen nobleman. Thomas was a natural mimic, almost as good as her brother, and right now – with his Eastern clothes and darkened skin and solid grasp of Arabic – a person would be hard pressed to identify him for who he truly was. Now, by deepening his voice and drawing himself up to his full height, even she felt vaguely intimidated by his disguise. She forced a smile, and moved forward to straighten the turban on his head, brushing his hair under it as she did so.

"Er, thanks," he said, a little awkwardly, and she froze with embarrassment at the realisation that her actions had been decidedly feminine. She stepped back, trying to appear casual, annoyed at herself for her carelessness.

"I will tell my father that you are to be addressed as Khalid from now on," she said. "He'll make sure my uncle gets word."

Thomas nodded, reassured.

"Turn around," she ordered. "Let me see you."

Obediently, the newly-made Khalid revolved on the spot, and she cast her eye up and down his body. He wore her brother's trousers and coat, a turban was wrapped around his dark brown hair, and his skin was now a dark brown hue thanks to the dye. But –

"Wait!" she told him once he had his back to her. "The back of your neck!"

Thomas had forgotten to smear the dye on this tell-tale area, leaving Khalid with a neck that looked as white as the moon compared to the rest of his tanned body. After pointing out his mistake she left him as he vigorously rubbed the sticky substance into the exposed area. A vague chill of foreboding had come over her…that odd blend of the familiar name and the alien whiteness of that neck…

She hurried up to her room, wincing at the sound of what sounded like another argument between Djaq and her father in the living quarters, and shed her boy's clothes to once again took up her skirt and veils. Her slip-up over Thomas's turban had shaken her, having fallen into a mothering air without being conscious of it. But as she strode out the front door of her house, beckoning a household servant to follow, she remembered that it wouldn't matter. He would be gone soon, as would her persona as Djaq. Gone forever, she pondered sadly, her feet dragging in the dust. As she always did in such times, she was headed for Bassam's house, just a few streets away from her own home, to slip into the peace and coolness of the aviary. Here, finally, she was at peace.

Behind her, she heard her servant take his usual seat by the door, and from the adjoining room, Bassam pottering about and muttering to himself. She decided not to call out to him – ever since she was a little girl she'd had the run of Bassam's house, from the pigeon alcoves, to the fountain in the large hall; from the kitchens were she would beg for treats as a child, to the spacious courtyards outside.

She wandered about the large room, listening to the familiar sounds: the soft gush of the fountain, the shuffle of the birds, the muted sound of the streets outside. Bassam had lined up the messenger pigeons that needed to be sent that day, each with the tiny scrolls fastened to the rings around their legs. It would seem odd to many that simple-minded Bassam would be entrusted with the care of birds that could carry anything from love tokens to a faraway spouse to coded military orders to a war general, but the elderly man was perfectly capable of following instructions and – more importantly – had no interest in whatever information needed to be sent. His only concern was for the birds themselves. Despite his affectionate grumbling, he could tell each bird apart, and had given each one a name. Safiyah had always been touched by his devotion to them, long before her father explained to her the importance of the task that a pigeon handler held.

As she glanced over at the pigeons, rustling in anticipation for their flight back to their mates, she heard Bassam approach, his steps shuffling across the stucco floor.

"Hello Safiyah," he said, and she smiled in return. Since the night Thomas had come into her life, Bassam had been the only other person privy to her secret education in the field of medicines. Sometimes she suspected her mother knew also – but Fatima pointedly ignored the reality of the situation, whereas Bassam liked to wear a secretive expression whenever she visited his house. It left her mildly exasperated, but she trusted him. Bassam had known her since she was an infant, doting on her through her entire childhood, and now into her early adulthood.

He nodded toward the row of pigeons, shifting impatiently by the window in their separate cages, as though they knew that freedom was almost upon them.

"Would you like to do it this time?" he asked.

She smiled blissfully, and moved forward to the first of the pigeon boxes. It was a strange little game that she'd made up as a child, one that had gone from an abstract imagining to a fully-fledged ritual: she carefully took the first pigeon from its box, holding its wings down gently but firmly, and carried it over to the open window. Closing her eyes, she pretended that all her father's teaching was flowing from her own mind into the bird, emptying her mind of everything she knew about medicine, surgery and human anatomy. Then, with a flourish, she thrust the bird into the air, listening to the loud clatter of wings as it took off. With it went the part of herself that belonged to her father, thrown out into the vast open sky. The second pigeon took with it all the fencing and parrying that her brother had been teaching her for almost ten years, and the third took the sly looks and graceful gestures and submissive curtsies that her mother had instilled in her from a very young age. The pigeons took with them all the abilities that had been imposed upon her by her family – she had asked for none of it, and the silly ritual eased her mind – momentarily freeing her from all her familial responsibilities and granting her some respite.

According to Safiyah, Bassam possessed the ideal lifestyle. By caring for the pigeons, he lived a life of importance and respect without the sight of blood or gore or the screams of the dying, without the idiocy of flirting or coyness or the need to please a man by concentrating on every little action and speech and glance. Here, more than anywhere else on earth, she was free to simply be herself.

The problem was, she didn't know exactly who that was. The rest of her life was so full of her family's need of her, that moments without their constant demands on her time and attention were rare. In Bassam's house she was free, but also strangely listless and uneasy – adrift in a life without a purpose. As she watched the rest of the birds take to the sky, she found herself pondering the fact that she had no grasp whatsoever on who she was – only what she was to others.

Long ago she had explained her pigeon-game to Bassam, knowing that he would understand. It had been his words that had inspired her to begin the activity in the first place, after he'd told her that in their mastery of flight, only birds would ever know true freedom. In his mind, flight and freedom were the same thing, and tending these birds brought him closer to both. His words had seemed so profound when she was young, no doubt sounding grand and awe-inspiring to a nine-year old, but of late they felt hollow. If by the grace of Allah mankind was granted the gift of flight, there would be no freedom – just another war over possession of the skies. Grumpy at herself for being so thoroughly pessimistic – why couldn't she be perpetually cheerful and carefree like her brother? - Safiyah settled on the divan next to the window and gazed up into the grey sky. She didn't look down when she felt someone sit beside her – she already knew who it was.

"So what were you fighting about this time?" she asked Djaq.

He shrugged, so she answered the question for him.

"War. What else?"

"He doesn't want me fighting."

"Of course not. He's your father. And you're too young."

"No I'm not!" he cried, startling some of the pigeons. He instantly lowered his voice and glanced around guiltily. "Well I'm _not_. Every day the invaders are pushing their boundaries – pushing closer to this city, to our home – and he just expects me to sit there and do nothing."

"He doesn't want you in danger."

Djaq scoffed. "Danger? From those infidels? We're superior in numbers, intelligence and prowess. There's no danger in fighting such inferior beings."

Secretly quailing at the scorn she heard in his voice, and the anger that would emerge should he learn that such an 'inferior being' had lodging in his very house, she drew her knees up to her chin.

"If we're so superior to them, we should find a better way than fighting to rid ourselves of their presence."

"You sound like father."

"One of his children should."

Djaq was silent, a little stung. Moments passed, and the twins gazed out at the sky together. Djaq seemed to want to say something more – he kept taking a breath as if to speak, but then exhaling again. Safiyah waited patiently.

"Do you think Bassam will lend me a pigeon?" he said finally.

Safiyah stifled a snort. "Who is she this time?"

Djaq looked at her seriously.

"The girl I'm going to marry."

It was a gift her brother had, that along with stirring up laughter and frustration in her like nobody else could, he possessed the ability to occasionally render her truly speechless with his absurdity.

For several moments she struggled to decide whether he was serious, or whether this was the setup to another elaborate joke. Certainly he looked earnest enough, and she was the only one who could recognise the difference between Djaq's true sincerity and the wide-eyed innocence that he plastered across his face after doing something particularly mischievous, but – marriage? Not Djaq – not the boy who fell madly in love with a different girl each week. It had to be some sort of game, but there he sat, staring at her intently and in perfect seriousness, but with a gleam in his eyes that reminded her suddenly of Thomas expression as he expressed his joy at returning home. _Freedom_ – the random word blossomed unexpectedly in her mind, but she cast it away with the shake of her head.

Well, there was only thing for it. As had always been her way, ever since they were children, Safiyah swiftly adapted her attitude and demeanour to oppose his. When he was serious, she felt it was her duty to be silly, and now she felt her teasing smile blossom across her face.

"Marriage?" she asked, her eyebrows raised. "Have you been wandering about in the desert without a hat?"

"No," he said simply. "I'm really going to marry this one. I'm in love, now and forever."

Again she scoffed, trying to force from him a smile or a wink, or _something_ that would tell her that he was only joking. But there he sat, watching her steadily. She sighed and decided to indulge him.

"Well, who is she then?"

"She's kind and clever…and she has beautiful eyes. She moves like a dancer. And she's not like the other girls either – she doesn't gossip or giggle or anything like that."

"You don't even know her name, do you."

"Well, not yet – but what difference does that make? I'm in love with her. And when I get back, I'm going to marry her."

Safiyah's mind whirled upon a thousand questions, but finally her mouth managed to blurt one out.

"How can you possibly be in love with her?"

"I don't know. I just am."

"You decide to love this woman even though you barely know her?" she demanded.

He laughed suddenly.

"Ah Saffy," he said in that irritating know-it-all tone. "My clever sister who knows nothing about love. It's good to know I will always surpass you in at least one subject."

She glared at him. Once again, his mind was so full of his own dreams and fancies that he was completely missing the point.

"I have more important things to do with my time than try and find someone to love."

"Sister dear," he told her, reaching forward to tweak her nose (a gesture she hated, which was probably why he was always doing it). "You don't _find_ someone to love. You don't decide or choose! It just happens."

She shook her heard, her logical mind finding the whole subject incomprehensible, not to mention vaguely terrifying.

"One day you'll understand," he told her patronisingly. "One day you'll fall in love, and you'll remember this day and think – 'my stupid, foolish brother was right.'"

For the briefest of seconds, she wanted it. She wanted to fall in love as easily and as completely as her brother seemed to do, to feel like he often looked: dreamy-eyed, short of breath, full of rapture and exhilaration. For just one moment, she would have pounced at the chance to own it, no matter the consequences. And then the moment passed, and with a strange blend of relief and sadness, she settled back into herself again. She'd never know Djaq's kind of love. For her, love would have to be like that of all other women of her class: quiet, comfortable, dutiful. Her mother had assured her from an early age that one day she would wake up and find herself loving the man sleeping beside her, simply because she'd have no choice – time and familiarity would have done its task. It was a safer kind of love than Djaq's, and besides, declarations of love were for a man to make. She was as much gagged on the subject of her ability to love as she was on the other traits within herself that Bassam's pigeons had taken with them into the sky.

For a while she simply looked at her brother's face wistfully, then leaned forward and touched his knee gently.

"If I was going to fall in love, don't you think I would have done it by now?"

His smile faded, the light left his eyes, and he gazed at her solemnly.

"Sorry. I forgot."

She sighed. So often it seemed that there was no room for anything in Djaq's head but his own joy and grief. But then, that was simply Djaq's way, she thought, as she rearranged herself on the divan so that her head was on his shoulder. She'd chastised him enough for one lifetime, and they were getting older now...soon it would have to stop. Right now she just wanted to rest in the peacefulness of Bassam's house…yet there was something Djaq had said that troubled her…only she couldn't quite remember…something he was going to do…

Her eyes drooped sleepily. She'd think of it soon…

She sat up with a jolt and a small gasp. She'd fallen asleep, Djaq was gone, and the shadows of the aviary had deepened considerably. Her brother's words that had been niggling in her mind as she'd drifted asleep suddenly rose up clearly: "When I get back, I'm going to marry her." _Get back from where?_ She wondered, raising herself up into a sitting position. She gazed around the empty room, once more struck with foreboding. This place had always seemed a sanctuary for her, but now it felt the outside world was suddenly looming threateningly around her, pressing in on the four walls, creeping across the floors as irrevocably as the evening shadows. Something was coming for her…

* * *

All of this and more whirled through Djaq's head as she sat, frozen on her stool in the small Locksley cottage whilst Allan and Will looked at her intently, a range of emotions playing across each face. Curiosity… speculation… suspicion… her eyes flitted nervously from face to face as she grasped for an explanation. They would never believe that another Saracen woman was lost somewhere in the vicinity, and besides, she'd already given the game away with her reaction.

She wet her lips, a plan formulating at record-speed in her mind – or, at least, the first steps of a plan. She'd have to figure out the rest as she went along, though she already knew where it would lead her. Taking the little bottle of acid out of her pocket like it was some sort of talisman, she squeezed it tightly in her fist and took a deep breath, knowing she'd have to play this very, _very_ carefully.

"Yes…yes, I think it is me," she said in reply to Allan's question.

"Do you know who these men are?" Will asked her.

"I believe so. I think I recognised the voice of their leader in the forest last night, though I cannot be sure."

"Well, who is he?" Allan demanded. "What do they want with you?"

"He – was a friend of my family. At least…it is difficult to explain. Things may have changed now."

"Are you in danger?" Will asked quietly.

She took a deep breath, praying to Allah that she was choosing the right words.

"Possibly. I can't know for certain until…until I see him."

Allan raised an eyebrow.

"_See_ him? Why can't we just hide you in the woods till this whole thing blows over?"

"Because this man will not give up easily. He has already got his men searching the area. Eventually one of the villagers is bound to mention me."

"But they all think you're a boy!"

"He is not stupid. He will figure it out."

Before another word could be said Kate returned, carrying a loaf of bread and a glass jar of some strange red substance that made Allan suddenly sit up straighter. As she set the food down on the table she cast a worried look at the three of them.

"Soldiers have just arrived," she said. She fetched a knife from a deep pocket in her skirt and began to slice into the bread.

"What about the Saracens?" Will asked her, taking advantage of Djaq's forced silence to prod into the mystery further. "What else did they do?"

Kate shrugged, her eyes on the task at hand. "Nothing – they just gathered outside Locksley Manor and started handing out sacks of food. Then they said that they were looking for one of their own women that had gone missing from their envoy, and would give a reward to anyone who found her."

Allan's ears pricked up. "Reward? How much?"

"Allan!" hissed Will, leaning around Djaq to poke him in the ribs.

"What!" he spluttered defensively. "I'm just curious! I'm not gonna-"

Kate interrupted him with the answer to his question, and instantaneously both Will and Allan's jaws dropped. Djaq squirmed in a state of agony that was edging ever closer to panic.

"Heck," Allan said after a lengthy pause. "They…they must really want her back."

"Mmhmm," Kate agreed, spreading the gloopy-looking substance on the slices of bread with her knife. "There are instructions not to harm her, but to either take her to Nottingham Castle, or to tell the Saracens there where to find her. Said anyone with information is supposed to ask at the gate for a man called Khalid."

She passed a slice of the bread around to each of them and looked at them expectantly. Djaq looked down at her portion in a daze, her eyes fixed on the red mess on top of it. _What on earth is that supposed to be?_ she thought numbly.

"Kate?" Will asked. "Do you think you could give us a moment?"

She blinked, a little surprised, and then nodded.

"Alright. I've got some chores to do," she told them, and left again.

Allan was still looking at Djaq incredulously, and it was Will who had to reopen the discussion.

"We should find Robin," he said. "He'll know what to do."

"No!" she cried, horrified. She did not want Robin involved in this – provided he wasn't already, which was an even greater reason to avoid him. She quailed to imagine what he'd say – what he'd _do_. His sense of honour was very great, and there was a good chance he wouldn't side with her in this matter.

But these two…with these two there was a slim chance of getting out of this unscathed. Quickly she weighed up the facts. Her countrymen had lied about her being in their envoy for the sake of convenience – but the lie meant Allan and Will would consider them untrustworthy. The fact that a reward had been placed on her capture gave a sinister edge to their motives. And by now, Khalid would be lodging in Nottingham Castle – an ominous display of misplaced loyalties if ever there was one. All this gave her the advantage in arguing her case.

"I…I need to do this by myself," she said carefully. "It's my business. No one else needs to be involved."

"And what exactly is it that you plan to do?" demanded Allan.

"I'll…go and see him. I'll make him leave."

The two of them stared at her, dumbfounded.

"Wait, wait, wait," said Allan, waving his hands in the air. "You're telling us that some old family friend has sailed all the way from the Holy Land, put a reward out for your capture that would feed Locksley for a year, has his men scouring each village for you – and you're going to make him leave by…_asking_ him?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't. How could she ever explain herself?

As it turned out, she didn't have to, for at that moment Kate burst back in through the door.

"The soldiers are searching the cottages!" she gasped, ushering them to their feet. "They're searching for the woman – obviously they've heard about her ransom, but I'm sure the arrest of three outlaws will be equally rewarded by the sheriff."

They leapt to their feet and scrambled for the door they'd entered by – Allan stopping briefly to snatch up the slice of bread from the table – and shuffled out one after the other. Pressed up against the wall of the house, they each snuck a glance around the corner to see a party of castle guards roaming the area, knocking on doors but giving the inhabitants no time to answer before bursting into the private dwellings. Quickly, the three of them edged in the opposite direction, toward the trees that lined the hamlet.

"Okay, on three, we make a break for it," Allan hissed back at them, and then counted down. The three of them dashed away across the open space of wet grass and muddy ground, but it was not until they were just metres away from the tree line that Djaq realised she'd forgotten her vial of acid – it was sitting on Kate's table, where she'd absentmindedly placed it whilst spinning out her strategy. She skidded to a halt, and turned around.

"My vial!" she called as loudly as she dared to the boys as they reached the trees. "I'll be right back!"

It didn't take long to slip back into Kate's cottage and retrieve the bottle from the table. Kate herself was no where to be seen, and Djaq assumed she had gone into hiding. Carefully she opened the small door in the side of the house and crept outside again. Her route to the trees was clear, and she hurriedly moved forward again, only to cry out when something hit her heavily across the back. She fell to the moist ground and rolled onto her back, reaching for her sword. A helmeted guard stood over her, an ugly grin on his face, the blunt of his sword having struck her to the ground.

"Going somewhere little boy?"

The question died in his throat as his eyes fell from her face to her body, and she realised in horror that the clasps of her waistcoat had opened, revealing her far-less-bulky shirt and the cleavage that it was meant to hide.

"Saracen woman," he muttered darkly, his eyes gleaming with sudden greed. She gave an angry yelp as he reached down to grab her, and then gaped in astonishment as a pair of pale hands appeared either side of his head, and firmly swivelled his helmet around back-to-front. Effectively blinded, Djaq took the opportunity to kick the man firmly in the groin, and as he toppled to the ground, shrieking in pain, she looked up into the wide eyes of Kate. It took only a moment for the English woman to take in the sight of Djaq's chest, before reaching down to take her hand and pull her up.

"You'd better get going," she said. "Before anyone else sees."

Djaq took her advice, and the two women took off in opposite directions, one to the village, one to the trees.


	10. Knighton Hall

_Hello, and welcome to Chapter Ten! Here we find the trio making their plans to get themselves into the castle, Djaq being somewhat devious, and the reader discovering that the boys aren't quite as naive as Djaq thinks. (Yes, I've cheated a bit in taking the POV away from Djaq in order to get Allan and Will's opinions of her, but I think it's worth it for a Allan/Will heart-to-heart)._

_I have shamelessly stolen an idea from "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves" - if you've seen that movie you'll probably see what it is...if you haven't, then you're not missing an awful lot (except Alan Rickman having the time of his life) and you can be none-the-wiser as to what it is I've nicked. Bwhahaha!_

* * *

**Chapter 10: Knighton Hall**

As she reached the forest's edge she spotted Allan and Will, moving restlessly on the verge of the trees, seemingly poised between running back to Locksley and staying where they were. Will was visibly relieved to see her return, and Allan's stormy expression reminded her suddenly of her father's face the time she'd run into the road as a little girl and nearly been run over by a passing cart. She held up her vial as way of explanation, feeling a little guilty at the exasperated look that passed between the two men.

"Sorry," she muttered, slipping the precious bottle of acid back into her pocket.

"Alright, alright," Allan said. "But you still haven't told us what's going on."

"I need to go to Nottingham and speak with Khalid. I will go by myself if I have to," she declared, knowing full well that she didn't stand a chance of achieving such a thing without them.

Once again a look passed between Will and Allan, but to her frustration she could not interpret this one. Anxiously she waited, her eyes flitting between he two of them, and finally, the barely perceptible drop of Will's shoulders told her that at least one of them had relented.

"We'll have to find Marian," Will told them. "She has access to the castle and may know what room this man is lodging in."

Djaq nodded eagerly as Allan lifted his eyes to the heavens.

"So – Knighton Hall then," he sighed. "This is going to be a long day."

* * *

Once again Will took the lead, trudging through the puddles and mud with Allan and Djaq carefully following in his footprints so to avoid the worst of the muck underfoot.

Behind her relatively peaceful demeanour, Djaq's mind was spinning, fastening onto one potential plan before discarding it as impractical and moving quickly to another. She had never been much good at thinking on her feet, preferring to take her time, gather the necessary information and act rationally and accordingly. But time wasn't on her side, intentions of the involved parties weren't entirely clear, and she was still floundering in unfamiliar waters, with opposing waves of past and present threatening to submerge her. She was desperate to gain control of the situation and in turn, some semblance of power over her future. But she'd never really owned such a thing as either Safiyah or Djaq, having been caught up in the chains of family and duty before the all-too-literal chains of slavery that had followed. She had compensated by maintaining strict discipline over that which she _could_ control…but now that once-immutable faith in her innermost self was coming undone. She once again found herself powerless against the tides of fate that were lapping at her heels, and entirely at the mercy (not that they knew it) of two men who may or may not be trustworthy.

She cast a sidelong glance at the man next to her, the man who was almost certainly sulking at the prospect of endangering himself for purposes she refused to explain, and then ahead to the cloak-shrouded youth, whose own emotions were buried so far deep under a stoic expression that she still couldn't fathom what went on in his head. She bit her lip in frustration. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed both of them if she was to accomplish this – they had the knowledge, the resources and the skills essential to carry her through Nottingham Castle to the room where Khalid and her final decision was waiting for her. For better or worse, she was stuck with them, and there seemed little point in continuing her plan of avoidance and aloofness. She'd just have to start communicating with them: tricking, cajoling, ordering – even pleading if worst came to worst. Whatever it took to do what had to be done…even if it meant calling on some of her mother's gifts. Thinking of her appearance, she wryly admitted to herself that such charms would not have much potency in her present state, but any man was susceptible to flattering words if one could tell them what they most wanted to hear.

Will was a few paces ahead, carefully picking out his path through the trees, and she glanced over at Allan again. In the time she'd known him, she was finally beginning to get the measure of him. There was a desire to be liked and respected by the people in his life, and a wanting for something more that he couldn't sate or even fully understand – he could only feel its presence, and it made him restless. Djaq could relate. According to her analysis, what he wanted – in the short term anyway – was some fuel for his ego. Her mother's lessons filtered through her mind (the ones that Fatima had always called "charming" men, but which Safiyah had secretly considered "trickery") and a few steps later, she had a shaky plan to ensure his enthusiasm for her little mission.

"Thank you for helping me," she said quietly, pouring gratitude into her voice. "I get the feeling that you're good at sneaking in and out of places undetected."

Allan visibly straightened.

"Well…let's just say that the gang found it difficult to get in and out of the castle before I came along. You know, one of the first times I saw Much he was half-way up a ladder that didn't reach the top of the castle walls."

She allowed herself a smile at that mental image, and continued, her voice low.

"Yes…I get the impression that Will might not be skilled at deception. He seems very young. But I bet you already have a plan for how to breach the castle walls."

The blue eyes of the man walking next to her were positively gleaming by now, and he flashed her a proud grin. As she'd suspected, he was proud of his ability to lie, cheat and steal, considering them valuable assests that he never seemed to get much credit for.

"Got some ideas. I'll get you inside, no worries. And yeah…Will is a bit too innocent for his own good. Which is odd considering all the time he spends with me. He's all "the poor needs this" and "the poor deserves that"… that boy would give up his last meal to a hungry puppy."

His voice was affectionate, but there was something else in his tone of voice, hidden under the joviality. Was it…resentment? Wistfulness? Self-defensiveness? She couldn't tell…and was it just her, or had there been the slightest emphasis on the word _boy_?

Inside she was cringing, feeling cruel and manipulative, not to mention incredulous at how impossibly easy it was to bend this man to her will. But it was all necessary if she was going to get what she wanted, she told herself. She'd make it up to them somehow once all this was over. And it wasn't doing any real harm. She sighed, and silently told herself to shut up.

* * *

Knighton Hall was a pretty place, even in the miserable weather, and Djaq admired the neat gardens and the well-kept building as Will carefully aimed and then threw pebbles at the window of what what she assumed was Marian's bedchamber.

On their arrival, Allan had accosted a group of female servants heading to the village to check if the Lady of the House was at home, whilst Will and Djaq hung back just out of earshot and tried to look inconspicuous. As they waited, she tentatively turned to Will, and posed to him the same sentiment she'd passed earlier to Allan, curious to see how the reaction would differ.

"Thank you for helping me," she said, letting her eyes widen innocently, calling upon her mother's advice almost subconsciously. "I know it's a lot to ask…and there's nothing in it for you."

Will answered whilst keeping his eyes on the group of women, currently giggling at something Allan had just said to them.

"It's alright. I like…helping people."

She shuffled a tiny bit closer.

"It's just…you seem very honourable. And Allan – he's very friendly…but I'm not sure he's entirely trustworthy."

"He'll help," Will admitted after a heavy pause.

"I'm grateful to both of you," her words inviting him to say more.

There was another silence, and then Will spoke again, blurting out his words as though he'd been holding them in for days:

"Just be careful around him. He tries to be good, I'm sure he does – but he just gets carried away sometimes. He was on his own for a long time, and he's still getting used to being part of a team. So just…be careful."

She was surprised at the intensity of his pleading, and nodded speechlessly. He nodded in return, and then turned back to the sight of Allan approaching them, swaggering a little, as the women carried on their way again. Something had instantly become clear to her.

Like many best friends, there was a rivalry that existed between Allan and Will, buried so far deep that they probably weren't even aware that it was there, a subtle ebb and flow of opinions and decisions and one-up-man-ship. It derived from the fact both were vaguely intimidated by the other, unknowingly participating in a competition to prove themselves to the world, and a recognition that each held traits that the other desperately wanted. A similar dynamic had existed between herself and her twin, and she suddenly shrunk into her cloak. The words she had spoken had been chosen to ensure their cooperation in getting her into Nottingham Castle – now she realised they might be having an entirely different effect.

Allan had returned to inform them that the Lady Marian was indeed at home, though resting (as was her habit on a Saturday afternoon).

"What took you so long?" Will grumbled, the sound of women's laughter fading as the group disappeared down the path. "It was a simple enough question."

Allan grinned.

"I thought I'd pump them for a little information on the whereabouts of the sheriff's mysterious houseguest. Some of them have family members working in the castle, and kitchen girls usually know more than high-court ladies when it comes to the ins and outs of a place like that."

"And did they? Know anything?" Will pressed.

"No."

Will had rolled his eyes and pushed impatiently past Allan to the back of the house, poking about on the ground for pebbles. Now Djaq stood in the drizzle, listening to the soft tap-tap of the tiny stones upon wooden shutters.

It was only a few moments before the window opened and a radiant face looked out – a radiance that quickly faded to disappointment when Marian realised that it was not the dashing and heroic figure of a hooded crusader, but three bedraggled and slightly sheepish looking outlaws.

She gestured with one white arm to the small barn around the side of the house, and moments later Allan, Djaq and Will were letting down their hoods and shaking the damp off their cloaks. Marian entered a few minutes later, looking around them as though they might have Robin hidden away behind them somewhere. Djaq watched her, being closer to her now than she had been the last time in Nottingham. She was not a good judge of beauty, (especially in this country) but she supposed that Marian was indeed beautiful, what with her graceful posture and those strange blue eyes that seemed to be so prevalent amongst the English. But her hair – surely her dark brown hair wasn't meant to be that short. Not as short as hers of course, but certainly shorter than the other women she'd seen, most of whom wore their hair in long braids trailing down their backs.

"Where's Robin?" she asked briskly.

"Actually, we're here alone," Will said. "We need some information."

She glanced at them each of them curiously, her eyes finally settling on Djaq.

"I don't believe we've been introduced."

Will gestured Djaq forward, and the two women solemnly shook hands as Will introduced her as Djaq, a refugee that Robin had saved from hard labour in the mines and was now living among the outlaws as their physician.

"Well, that's certainly handy," Marian commented, as Djaq silently pondered the fact that Will had left her gender unmentioned. It couldn't be that he didn't trust Marian…perhaps he just liked the idea of keeping it a secret for now. "What is it you all need?"

"We were hoping you knew where to find…um…"

"His name is Khalid," Djaq took over. "He is the Saracen staying in Nottingham Castle."

"He'll be lodged in the guest quarters. I've seen him at court rubbing shoulders with the sheriff, though I have not yet spoken with him. He seems most distinguished…despite his unfortunate associations."

"The sheriff got his tribute then," Allan commented.

She nodded. "And he's still crowing about the generosity of the East. He's offered Lord Khalid the use of all his guards in the search for this woman he's looking for."

She cast another glance at Djaq, a slightly suspicious one this time, and Djaq swiftly diverted her attention with another question.

"Which part of the castle are the guest quarters?"

"The east wing, aptly enough. On the third floor. I can draw you a map if you like – wait here."

Marian left the barn to gather some parchment, and the outlaws gathered together.

"Why didn't you tell her Djaq here is the woman they're all searching for?" Allan asked.

"Not my secret to tell," Will replied, glancing shyly at Djaq.

"Perhaps it's best if we keep it to ourselves for now," she said, and changed the subject. "Even if we know where Khalid is, we still need to find a way to get to him. Surely the guest quarters will be more heavily guarded."

"Not to mention the fact that everyone will be out looking for a Saracen woman," Allan added. "And that disguise may not be enough to stop certain people from taking a closer look at you."

She unconsciously pulled her waistcoat closer around her chest, thinking of the guard that had caught her unawares in Locksley. It was unlikely that he would share the information with his peers, given the advantage that his knowledge would have in catching her, but surely he would know the chance of running into her again were slim. But in that case he might choose to bribe her fellow Saracens with the news that she was dressed as a boy. No, her short hair and bulky clothes wouldn't be good enough if she was going to roam about the busy streets of Nottingham in which every pair of eyes would be alert to Saracens of any shape or form. She would need something else…

At that moment Marian reappeared, blowing the ink dry on a parchment that had scrawled upon it a rough map of the east wing interior, with a small X placed over a room that Marian explained was the largest guest room, and therefore the most likely one for Khalid to be housed in.

She passed over the parchment, and then once more gazed speculatively at the outlaws.

"Is Robin going with you?" she asked.

"Nah, this is a little something we three are takin' care of," Allan said.

"So…where is Robin?" she asked, and then sighed impatiently as Allan simply shrugged.

"We're not entirely sure," Will told her. "We all got separated yesterday night."

Her eyes flashed. "Then I suppose he's out doing something idiotic by himself."

Knowing this was probably true, Will and Allan smiled uneasily, leaving Marian to tap her foot in irritation. Djaq watched her demeanour uneasily. Marian was supposed to be in love with Robin. So where were the dewy eyes and stupid smile that marked all those who wandered about in such a state?

"You must excuse me now," Marian said. "My father and I are participating in the Feast of St Radegund tomorrow and I must prepare. Guy is accompanying us to the church."

There was no doubt in Djaq's mind that Marian had dropped Guy's name in the hopes that they would pass it on to Robin, and that both men were entirely oblivious to this fact. She scolded herself – she had better things to worry about than the strange mating habits of others – and instead watched as Allan shuddered:

"Lepers," he muttered darkly, and Marian raised an eyebrow at him.

"_Unfortunates,_" she corrected him, and with a last nod at the three of them, left.

"Lepers?" Djaq asked, wondering how on earth they had suddenly entered the conversation.

"It's the Feast of St Radegund," Will explained. "Lepers are allowed into Nottingham to get a blessing in the church."

"Lepers…" Allan repeated, almost to himself, causing Will and Djaq to glance up at him questioningly. He looked back at Djaq with the beginnings of a wicked grin pulling at the sides of his mouth. "I got an idea."

* * *

"See, it's perfect," he said, pulling a dirty white garment out of a lumpy sack. Djaq recognised it as the disguise he'd worn at the mines the day they'd met and began to have an inkling of what he had in mind.

The three of them were back at Allan's cave, and he'd hefted a sack out of the darkness of the cave's interior to explain his idea for sneaking Djaq into the castle undetected. "You wear this, and we wrap up your hands and head. Everyone will think you're a leper come for blessings! No one will even want to come near you, let alone think you're a Saracen. Plus, the town will be full of 'em – no one will notice one more."

"What about us?" Will asked, and Allan dug deeper into the sack, a variety of other odds and ends falling to the floor, including a several hats, an eye-patch and something that looked suspiciously like a lady's handkerchief. Finally he pulled out the murky-brown robes of a friar and shook them triumphantly at Will.

The look that passed between Will and Djaq conveyed that neither of them particularly wanted to know how or why Allan had a friar's robe stashed away at the back of a cave, but she had to admit it was a good idea. She took the ragged white robe from Allan and held it against her body – it was far too big of course, but that hardly mattered when she would be playing the part of a leper.

"We'll escort you to the church and no one will raise an eyebrow – then it's just a simple matter of slippin' out the backdoor and making our way to the castle."

"We'll haul ourselves up the rubbish chute entrance," Will said. "Then follow Marian's map to the room she marked for us."

_And then I'll end this, _Djaq added silently, and clenched the white fabric with her fingers.

* * *

Fatima's wailing filled the entire household, and Safiyah could not escape the terrible keening no matter where she went. Even the twins' courtyard was no refuge, not just because the sounds of a heartbroken mother drifted down from the open windows of the women's quarters, but because it was no longer the twins' courtyard. There were no twins anymore…just Safiyah. The place was just the same: the flagstones, the spindly trees, the stucco walls, but it hurt to look at them because Djaq would never again be among them. He would never do anything again, and Safiyah would never ever again hear his laughter or feel his affectionate nudges or see his flashing eyes that matched her own in their shape and size so perfectly.

And so she walked listlessly about the house, her mother's grief rising and falling in volume depending on how close she wandered to her room, the sound soaking into every corner and invading every crevice of the house. Safiyah added her own mental rhythm to the ceaseless wailing, for with every step she took, a single word pounded in her mind: _dead, dead, dead, dead…_ it was never-ending. A small part of her mind – the part that somehow managed to retain coherent thoughts – wondered if she would be trapped inside this restless dirge forevermore. Finally, the world itself answered her question, and the night stole away her mother's voice as she succumbed to exhaustion.

But Djaq's face was dancing before Safiyah's eyes as she walked ceaselessly throughout the halls and courtyards in a pointless attempt to out-walk the memories. If she just kept moving, surely the image of her brother's face would leave her soon. But it didn't, and the events of the last time she'd seen him kept replaying in her head.

He had snuck into her room and shaken her gently awake, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

"Saffy! Saffy!" he had whispered, and she sat up grumpily.

"What now?" she muttered, imagining that some pigeon had just returned to him with a message from his beloved.

"I came to say goodbye."

"Hhhmmm?"

"I'm leaving. I'm joining the army – I'm going to fight the Englishmen and rid this country of them once and for all!"

She was instantly wide awake.

"Djaq, are you crazy!" she hissed softly. "You're not old enough! Father won't allow it!"

"Father isn't going to find out. You're not going to tell him."

As she kicked at her blankets and tried to get out of bed to do precisely what he'd told her not to, he swiftly leaned over and pinned her wrists down on the bed with his hands. His force surprised her, and she stopped struggling.

"Safiyah," he said, in a tone so serious she barely recognised it. "I have to do this."

"But why?"

"All my life…I've never really done _anything. _And I never wanted to either – I was happy just playing tricks and making people laugh. But…I can't be that way forever. I just…I want to be more like you. And if you were a boy, you'd be fighting in this war too, you know you would. And you'd probably win single-handedly."

He flashed her a sad smile.

"This is something I can do for the family…and the country…and Allah."

"And for you," she said. For a moment he looked stricken, and shook his head frantically.

"No…no…it's nothing to do with me!"

But under the steady gaze of his sister, he faulted and slumped his shoulders in defeat.

"Maybe it is. I'm just sick of being treated like a layabout. Everyone thinks I'm useless. I want to be respected. I want people to think I'm a good man."

She was unsure of what to say. Seconds ago she had been ready to awaken the household, to fight him – physically if need be – into staying, but now looking into his sad eyes, she knew she couldn't deny him this pathetic, hopelessly misguided request. Chances were the army officials would take one look at him and send him back anyway.

"If you're going to tell father, at least give me a head start," he said sullenly.

"I'm not going to tell father. It's your choice Djaq."

He glanced back at her, his face brightening once more.

"Don't worry about me Saffy," he said. "I'll be fine. And when I come back, I'll have fame and fortune and a wife waiting for me!"

He moved forward and kissed her forehead, then stole silently out of the room once more, glancing back to give her one last excited grin. And he was gone.

She sat there, wide-awake for the rest of the night and the early hours of the morning, feeling stunned. It was surely just another of Djaq's ridiculous schemes. They'd probably find him sleeping in the garden the next morning, having changed his mind halfway to the front door. He couldn't really be gone.

But the memory of his eyes glinted in her mind, as did the echo of his last words. She'd forgotten to tell him that such things wouldn't make him a good man, and as she finally settled down uneasily into her blankets, she felt as though their goodbye had been hopelessly inadequate and incomplete.

And now she wandered the house aimlessly, knowing there was nothing she could do to bring him back. It was too late to rush out to the battlefield and cut down any one who threatened him. It was too late to tell her father about Djaq's midnight escape. It was too late to convince him that he was needed at home despite his insistence that his abilities were unwanted and disregarded. She had failed.

* * *

She awoke to the sound of soft whimpering beside her, and for a dizzying moment she thought she was back home, curled up near her mother as she sobbed softly into her pillow. But no, this wasn't Fatima, but Allan, and once again he was caught in a nightmare, twitching and muttering in his sleep, a sheen of sweat across his face. She rose up onto her elbows, and looked at his sleeping visage closely. Surely she should wake him – surely it would be kinder to break whatever nightmare held him captive in his own mind. And yet, she dreaded the reaction that would follow should he awaken and find her mothering him.

But she could not just do _nothing._

Tentatively she raised one hand and then lowered it softly on his collarbone, just above his heart, adding pressure ever so slightly so that his dreaming-self would feel its weight. Quietly she began to hum Fatima's lullaby, the lilting passage feeling odd and out of place in this chilly English cave. But she continued, watching his face intently, and to her relief, he eventually began to quieten under her palm. Finally he gave a small sigh and settled into a deeper sleep – one that was seemingly devoid of any night-horrors.

She settled back down into her own blankets, but just before closing her eyes, she risked a glance at Will, still on watch at the cave entrance. His face was turned toward her, having watched the exchange silently, and on meeting her eyes, he turned back to the view of the forest.

* * *

Several hours later, Will prodded Allan awake with his foot, informing him it was his turn at watch. And yet when a bleary Allan hoisted himself up and shuffled over to the entrance of the cave, Will made no move to fall asleep. Instead he gazed so pointedly at the Saracen sleeping on the stony ground, that Allan could not help but guess his thoughts, and opened the conversation that his young friend was trying to start.

"She's something, eh?"

Will's eyes flicked in his direction.

"I heard her talking to you. She said I was very young."

"Well, you are, ain't you?"

Seeing something rather like hopelessness in Will's eyes, Allan gave a small sigh.

"I wouldn't take it personally mate. She was just sweet-talkin' me to make sure I get her into that castle. I suspect she said something similar to you."

A wispy smile flitted across Will's face.

"She said she couldn't trust you."

Allan stifled a laugh. "Well, there you go. At least she's honest when she's lying."

Will snorted. "More than we can say for you."

Their eyes drifted back over to the woman, who was frowning slightly in her sleep.

"She looks smaller when she's asleep," Will said.

"Less scary."

"Scary?"

"You know what I mean," Allan seemed a little flustered. "She's pretty…forceful."

Another pause, and then Will spoke again:

"She's afraid."

Allan nodded thoughtfully.

"Mmm. Of this man, d'you think?"

"Lots of things. Who do you think he is?"

Allan shrugged. "A family member – an uncle maybe. Didn't she say her parents were dead? Or maybe – hey, maybe she's a princess or something. That's why the reward is so large, and this lot chasing her are like her…guards or summat."

"A princess?" Will asked sceptically.

"Or a noblewoman, I dunno. She sure as hell ain't a peasant."

"Maybe…well…do you think he could be her husband?" The reluctance with which he asked the question belied the fact wasn't sure he wanted an answer.

"No."

"No? What makes you so certain?"

"Pretty useless husband if he lets his wife get taken into slavery like that."

"Maybe she was kidnapped or something. He's going to a lot of trouble to get her back."

"She doesn't seem to want to go back…I'd say she wants to stay right here. Otherwise, why not just give herself up?"

"But why ask us to help her get to him?"

A pause.

"Look, I think we're jumpin' to a lot of conclusions here. Besides, she hasn't got a wedding ring on."

"Maybe Saracens don't have wedding rings."

They were quiet for a few moments, frustrated at their own ignorance.

"How old do you think she is?" Will asked.

"Older than you, younger than me. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering."

"What do you think she looks like…as a girl?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"I…she…I don't know. She has a nice face."

"Well yeah, but what about the rest of her? I'd like to see her without that waistcoat."

"Shut up, Allan."

Will put a sudden end to the conversation, clambering down from his rocky seat and into Allan's discarded blankets, allowing himself one last look at the mystery sleeping beside him before closing his eyes.

* * *

_Wow, that was quite a whopper of a chapter - I honestly don't mean them to get this long! _

_Hopefully Djaq doesn't come across as too manipulative in this chapter, and I was hesitant at having her use "feminine wiles" to get Allan and Will to do her bidding, but keep in mind that she's in a pretty desperate state of mind at the moment (the reasons for which will hopefully become clear once we reach Khalid's room). Plus, I tried to compensate by having the boys fully aware that she's flattering them into getting what she wants - Allan especially knows when he's being played - and the idea that they're not quite as dense as Djaq thinks they are (I love Djaq to bits, but she is a bit of an intellectual snob!) Plus, she won't be using them again in the near future - she doesn't like doing it, and she'll learn her lesson by the end of this fic._

_Just for the record, the "Feast of St Radegund" is completely invented by me, although Radegund is a real saint with an association with lepers. _

_Next chapter: the trio put their plan into action, and we find out what happened the night Safiyah's parents died (I'm afraid it's almost time to start "breaking the cutie", as Television Tropes would say). _


	11. The Feast of Saint Radegund

_Thanks Wenrom31 and North Wyn for your comments!_

_Oh boy - here's where things get really bad for poor Safiyah, so I tried to keep the "present-day" story (that is, her adventures with Will and Allan) reasonably light-hearted in order to keep the chapter from being too depressing, but I may have just ended up creating too much of a change in tone. However, it is what it is, and I hope you enjoy it despite the rapid leap from hi-jinks to tragedy._

_(The problem is, Djaq's story is rapidly coming to a close, whereas there's still quite a lot of Safiyah's backstory to be told. I've cleared up a good chunk of it in this chapter, so hopefully the present day and the flashbacks will be more evenly handed in forthcoming chapters!)_

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: The Feast of Saint Radegund**

It wasn't getting any easier. Every morning she'd awaken to the realisation that Djaq was dead, and each morning the pain was as sharp and excruciating as it had been the first time, when Syed had returned to the house with the news, looking so old and beaten that his daughter had hardly recognised him.

She still roamed the halls listlessly, gazing dumbly at doors, pathetically hoping that Djaq would burst through, laughing his head off and declaring that it had all been a practical joke. Had that been the case she would have forgiven him; forgiven him for all the bitter tears she'd shed, forgiven him for their parents' grief, forgiven him for anything and everything, so long as he was alive for her to do so.

_Come home Djaq. Come home._

But he wasn't coming home, and her inability to change that fact was slowly but surely crushing her willpower. Having spent hours among the wounded and dying, she had been a witness to the grief of hundreds of families, and her father would always tell them the same thing: that it was the will of Allah, and that the pain would heal in time. Now that thought horrified her, the very idea that there might come a day in which she stopped missing her brother, that she might one day find herself able to live and function in a world in which she was not one half of a set of twins, but simply herself: Safiyah, alone.

The truth was, she didn't know who she was without him. All her life she had defined herself by her role as Djaq's twin sister, guiding him through his woes, participating in his pranks, vicariously living the freedom of a man through his exploits. Now she was just a shadow without the body that created it, bereft without the only soul on earth that could ever make her laugh.

Somehow she was expected to leave behind the memories of her foolish, mischievous, beloved brother. She was expected to cope with this, like an amputee without his limbs, and in time, those around her would want her to press on, as did the millions of other human beings in the world who had lost loved ones.

No. Surely her grief was special. No one on earth had ever mourned like she did now. She could never leave him behind, and the alternative…the alternative was to be caught in this listless, dragging, endless anguish for the rest of her days. Well, so be it. Djaq was dead and so was the piece of herself that had been made up of all that he'd stirred in her: laughter and tenderness and happiness and the sense that she was older and wiser beyond her years. Those parts of herself – the parts that she liked the _most_ about herself – had gone with Djaq to his sandy grave.

Only Safiyah was left. Whoever she was. And now a week had passed, the first week of her life in which Djaq was dead and she was not.

* * *

That evening she went to see Thomas, having not been to visit since the funeral. Thomas had missed the first opportunity to join her uncle's caravan to Acre, and although her father had told her that he had explained the family tragedy, she knew that the young Englishman must be going mad with the desire to escape.

She changed into her boy's clothes automatically, winding the turban around her black hair, and keeping to the empty corridors on her way to his room. Later on, she would be surprised that she still had enough presence of mind to take such precautions – even later, she would come to realise that there was an aspect of her being that cared for her wellbeing even when the greater part of her did not; a part that instinctively carried out the actions she needed to perform in order to protect herself.

Knocking quietly on Thomas's door, she heard his answering tap (they had long ago worked out a system so that Thomas would know exactly who was coming) and let herself in.

"Djaq! Thank God!" he gasped, grabbing her by the shoulders and looking at her intently. "I thought…I wasn't sure…I mean, your father told me you were alright, but he said his son had…had died. And I kept hearing _your _name..." he trailed off, clearly baffled.

She looked up at his distraught face, unsure about how much her father had told him.

"It is my brother who died," she said dully. "His name was also Djaq."

It sounded ridiculous, but Thomas's face cleared in understanding, then relief, and finally sympathy.

"Djaq…" he muttered, his eyes glinting in the midst of his darkened face. "I'm so sorry."

She couldn't answer, as all of a sudden that terrible choking pain was upon her again, and she turned away swiftly to hide the tears pooling in her eyes. It would never do to show weakness to an Englishman. Thankfully, Thomas didn't try to comfort her, and she forcefully swallowed down her sudden desire to wail in despair, instinctively picking up and clutching one of her father's scalpels on a nearby tray. After a few moments, she'd composed herself, and turned around to face him.

He had retreated and turned around to give her some measure of privacy. His head was bowed, and she vaguely noticed that once again he'd neglected to smear the back of his neck with the dye her father had provided. White skin peered out at her from between the base of his hair-line and the collar of his shirt. White skin. Her hand suddenly repositioned the scalpel in her hand, as a new emotion began to course through her body.

Djaq had died defending his country. Died because Englishmen had invaded her homeland and begun to wage war on her people. She'd lost him forever, and why? Because of a war that had been imposed upon him, that had tricked him into believing that it was his duty to defend his home and family. Red hot rage suddenly filled her head, and her hand clenched the scalpel. Djaq had hated the English, hated them so much that they had leeched away his high spirits till only that stupid, pointless desire to run away from home had remained. It was the English who had brought this pain down upon her, and here stood one of them, right in front of her, at her mercy. Djaq had wanted to rid his land of the English – as his twin, perhaps she should avenge his death by following in his footsteps. She could start with this one. Rid her country of one more infidel. Make the English suffer. Almost unconsciously, she raised her hand, the sharp blade of the scalpel flashing in the light, the nape of Thomas's neck beckoning her forward…already she was picturing the flow of blood that would surge out of him when she plunged her tiny weapon into that white slope of skin. No one would ever know – no one knew Thomas was even here except Syed, and what would her father ever do to her? In a few weeks she would be beyond his control anyway…it would be so easy…

Suddenly Thomas spoke, still facing away from her.

"When I get back – back to England, I'm going to talk to the nobles. And the peasantry. Anyone who'll listen. I'll tell them that we shouldn't be here. That King Richard made a terrible mistake in coming here. After your family's kindness, how can anyone justify this war?"

He was mainly talking to himself, muttering rather ineloquently, but it was enough to bring her to her senses. Numbly, she returned the scalpel to her father's workbench, though she was troubled to find that the bitter resentment remained. She wanted Thomas gone. Gone from her house and her life forever.

"My uncle returns in two days time," she croaked. "He will leave again for Acre the next day. You can go with him then."

Thomas turned, but Safiyah avoided his eyes, afraid that he would see the lingering hatred there.

"Thank you Djaq."

She nodded shortly, and as she turned for the door she told him:

"The back of your neck. You've forgotten it again."

* * *

Her father was walking down the hallway outside, and when he saw her, he raised a shaking hand to his heart, the colour draining from his face. She stared at him oddly for a moment before she realised – in the same moment he did – that he had mistaken her for her brother.

"Safiyah," he said, sighing. "I thought…thought you were Djaq."

"Wasn't that the point of all this?" she asked, gesturing to her clothes.

"Yes. Yes I suppose so."

For a few moments father and daughter looked at each other, unfathomable expressions on their faces. Finally they moved forward and met in front of a small divan set in an alcove against the wall, taking a seat next to each other in silence. Opposite was a window that faced the evening sun, and as they watched, the hall in front of them gradually began to fill with a strange light that stained everything around them with a dark red hue. Safiyah wasn't sure whether to find it otherworldly or sinister.

After a few moments of silence, in which she could tell her father was hesitating on the verge of words, struggling to find the right ones, Syed finally spoke.

"I never…_understood _your brother."

She gave a small, sad sigh and gently brushed Syed's wrinkled hand with her fingers, not knowing what to say. It was true that Syed and Djaq had never gotten on, their personalities being such polar opposites that it hardly possible that they could be in the same family, let alone father and son.

After a few moments, he spoke again.

"Now I'll never have the chance."

She glanced over at him, witnessing abject defeat in his eyes, hearing the pleading in his voice, asking her to explain it to him.

"Djaq wasn't hard to understand," she told him. "He just wanted to be…happy. But he wasn't sure what would make him happy."

Syed stared out the window. He had not reacted in any way to her words, but she could only assume that he was pondering them deeply. Finally he turned to her and nodded, looking utterly defeated and resigned. She wondered if she'd done the right thing, hoping that there had not been any accusation in the assessment she'd given him.

Gently her father brushed her cheek.

"Regarding…your future," he said. "I would like you to stay here for longer. We can postpone things."

She shrugged, turning to the window and watching as darkness swiftly stole away the red glow of the desert sun. She didn't care either way. Sensing she didn't want to discuss it, Syed rose – as bent and weary as an old man, which she realized suddenly, he probably was – and patted her head before shuffling off down the hall.

She never saw him again.

* * *

Djaq crept out of the tiny cave as the sun broke over the tips of the treetops, and fell to her knees in the muddy earth for morning prayer.

_Allah, let it be your will that this will work. Just once, let one of my plans be successful. _

After a few moments – she had no time these days to indulge in lengthy prayers – she rose and turned to see Will and Allan watching her from the mouth of the cave, apparently fascinated by the ritual that was such an everyday occurrence to her. From behind his back, Allan pulled out the white shroud of her leper's costume and shook it at her invitingly, a grin breaking across his face.

Despite her jangling nerves, she could not help but smile back.

The three of them prepared in silence, pulling their robes – white for Djaq, brown for the boys – over their normal clothes, but there was a sense of enjoyment hovering in the air. There was something inherently fun about disguises and subterfuge, no matter how serious the consequences surrounding them.

Djaq reluctantly handed her sword over to Will, who strapped it alongside his own around his waist. It was not out of the ordinary that friars carried swords for self-defence, and though it was a little odd that Friar Scarlett would be wearing _two_, a heavily armed leper would be even more suspicious. Djaq watched stood still as Allan carefully wrapped gauze bandages around her hands, before Will held the end of one long white bandage against the back of her neck whilst Allan wound its length around her head, leaving only a tiny slit for her eyes.

"Well?" she asked, her voice muffled through the folds of the cloth.

"You look horrific," Allan told her cheerfully. "I wouldn't touch you with a three-foot pole."

She supposed that was a good thing.

"Let's go over this one more time," Will said, a little nervously. "We travel to Nottingham gates. Hopefully the guards will let us pass without interruption."

"Right – then we escort Djaq to the church, along with all the other lepers."

Allan looked distinctly queasy about that part. She picked up the train of thought.

"Then at the entrance of the church, we sneak around the back to the castle walls to this…um…"

"Chute," Will told her. "Where the kitchen staff throw away all the rubbish from the kitchens. It isn't pleasant, but it doesn't take much effort to hoist yourself up there."

"Then it's a simple matter of avoiding guards, following Marian's map, and finding K…what's-his-name," Allan said. "And then getting out again without anyone seeing us."

Djaq was glad her head coverings were hiding the guilty expression on her face as she realized just how much danger these two were placing themselves in for the sake of her little gambit. For a few moments, the three of them stood in a small circle, preparing themselves mentally for whatever the day's events might bring, and then nodded silently to each other.

"Let's go," Allan said quietly, raising his hood.

* * *

As they neared Nottingham Djaq acquired a shuffle in keeping with her role as a leper, and Will inched nearer to her as the gates appeared before them and the flow of people in and out of the township suddenly increased. The helmeted guards either side of the raised portcullis fixed their flinty eyes on her limping figure, and the crowd gave the three of them a very wide berth, but no one attempted to interfere. She felt horribly exposed and conspicuous in this get-up, but as Allan had explained when he'd first come up with this idea, it was safer for her to be hiding in plain side rather than lurking in backstreets, where no doubt her fellow Saracens and the men they'd hired to find her would be searching.

Once inside the walls of Nottingham, Djaq spotted several other white-shrouded, hunched-over figures, many of whom carried wooden clappers or tin bells that heralded their coming. The noises they made were inevitably followed by a dispersion of the village-folk. Some were accompanied by stoic-faced churchmen, but more often than not they moved in little groups of their own. One in particular caught her attention; a small looking leper whose size suggested that behind the bandages there struggled an adolescence. Her heart ached for the solitary figure, skulking in the shadows in a pathetic attempt to remain unnoticed. She was an outcast in a foreign country – how much worse it would was to be an outcast in one's _own _country.

Watching the way in which the people drew away from the lepers – including herself – as they moved through the streets, she was suddenly glad of Allan and Will's reassuring presence either side of her – even if Allan was compromising their disguise by shying away from the _real _afflicted lepers. They turned a corner and Djaq found herself looking at a large grey building with a cross-shaped window carved into the stone and a tall bell-tower at its rear. _This was where Christians came to worship_, she told herself. _Praying to a god to help justify their destruction of my home. _Pushing down the sudden (but disturbingly familiar) surge of bitterness, Djaq tried to take in her surroundings as best she could through the tiny sliver in the cloth.

There was a slow but relatively steady stream of lepers filtering through the large wooden doors of the church, and a crowd of nobles (she could tell by their clothing) milling about outside, all with expressions ranging from grotesque fascination, to angelic pity, to supreme revulsion. It was as though they had all arrived for street-entertainment without fully knowing what it was they expected to see, or whether or not they should be enjoying the spectacle. With a jolt she recognised Marian, flanked by an older man that she assumed was her father, and a larger, black-clad man whose hawk-like eyes stared distastefully over the small white handkerchief he held over his nose and mouth. He lowered the cloth momentarily in order to lean down and say something to Marian, who simply nodded impassively and turned her attention back to the crowd in front of her.

_That must be Guy of Gisbourne, _Djaq thought. Despite registering his arrogant posture and cruel expression, she could understand why Robin might feel a little threatened by his attentions to Marian. Yet Marian herself seemed a little uncomfortable at Guy's close proximity, and was perhaps displaying a level of interest in the lumbering progress of the lepers that she didn't necessarily feel.

Djaq turned her attention back to the church doors, letting Will and Allan take her by the arms as though she was barely capable of walking, watching as the priest by the door sprinkled water over the heads of the lepers as they entered. He was a young acolyte, and looked like he'd rather be somewhere – _anywhere _– else but here. Somewhat curious as to what the inside of a Christian temple looked like, Djaq craned her neck to see the interior, but Allan and Will were gently ushering her to the side of the church, preparing to make their dash for the castle walls.

It was then Djaq gave a small cry that made Will jump and tighten his grip on her arm, but she quickly shrugged him off and gestured discreetly to the source of her alarm. Amongst the crowd were two Saracen men, finely dressed, heavily armed, and with watchful eyes scanning the crowd. Like the lepers, most of the Englishmen and women were keeping their distance, save for one stodgy man that Djaq had recognised as the leader of the men that the outlaws had ambushed in the forest – the one that she had threatened with her "truth serum." Now he was muttering something to one of the Saracens, looking sullen and tired.

"Do you know them?" Will hissed in her ear.

"No…but they must be Khalid's men. I'm sorry – seeing them just startled me. Let us keep going."

But her reaction had caught the attention of the acolyte at the church door, and he called out to them.

"You there! Lepers enter the church from _this _entrance. Don't you want to be blessed?"

"Yeah, it's all right, er…brother," Allan yelled back. "He's feeling a little poorly at the moment."

Djaq obediently went limp and fell back into Will's arms.

"We're just gonna let him lie down for a moment," Allan explained as Will half-dragged, half-carried her around the corner of the church. "Be back soon!"

Will released her (somewhat reluctantly, or so it felt) once they'd reached the odd, cramped space between the back of the church and the high wall of the castle keep, and a few moments later were joined by Allan.

"All clear," he said. "As fascinating as it sounds, no one really wants to see a leper fall apart."

Djaq yanked the cloth off from around her head, thoroughly sick of it, and pulled apart the bandages around her hands.

"Rubbish chute now?" she asked breathlessly.

"This way," Will said, nodding his head down the length of the high wall and taking off at a fast-paced jog. Djaq and Allan were close behind, and a few minutes later Will pointed at a small chute situated one-quarter of the way up the wall, a pungent smell emerging from the large stone bin that was built below it. Will hoisted himself up onto its rim, wincing as he cast a glance down into its contents, and then edged around to the chute itself.

"All clear," he told Djaq and Allan softly, and they scrambled up to join him, Djaq teetering dangerously close to the pile of kitchen waste rotting away below her. Steeling herself, she followed Will as he pulled himself up and into the dingy hole in the wall, shuffling up its tilted slope till he disappeared down into the small courtyard on the other side. He reached up to help her down as she reached the end of the small tunnel, and as much as she hated the chivalric gesture (she still hadn't given up her hope that one day she'd be treated like a man whilst among these outlaws) she knew that jumping down from such a height could only end with her face-down on the paving stones. Taking his hands, she hopped down as lightly as she could and sent up a quick prayer to Allah that he'd allowed her to land with a reasonable amount of grace. Which was more than could be said for Allan, who lost his footing and ended up sprawled at her feet. He picked himself up and glared at Will.

"Thanks for the hand, _mate._"

Will mumbled an apology, and the three of them thankfully pulled off their stained and smelly robes, though to Djaq's surprise Allan carefully folded each one up and tucked them under his arm.

"What do you want to keep _them_ for?" Will asked.

"Hey, these are top-quality disguises," Allan said defensively. "It took a lot of time and effort to nick these."

Will and Djaq cast a semi-amused glance at each other, before Djaq turned her attention to her new surroundings. The courtyard was full of small gardens full of neat lines of vegetables and other plants that she couldn't identify at a glance. She had to admit that despite the stench of their unlawful entrance into the castle grounds, the rubbish deposit was the perfect way of entering undetected, considering the nobles of the castle wouldn't deem a simple kitchen garden worthy of guarding – if indeed, they even knew that such a garden existed.

"This way," Allan said, once Will had returned Djaq's sword to her and she'd buckled it firmly around her waist. "We'll cut through the kitchens – none of the workers there will mind – and then take a gander at Marian's map."

Feeling a little nervous at the thought of being witnessed by so many people, but trusting that Allan knew what he was doing (after all, surely the outlaws had snuck into the castle hundreds of times) she followed without argument.

* * *

The kitchens were noisy, steamy, crowded and bustling, with what seemed like a hundred different people trying to achieve several different things at once, with each one needing the same space and resources that all the others did. The workers of the kitchen – made up entirely of women – barely glanced up as the outlaws threaded their way through stacks of food and boiling cauldrons and sweaty bodies, though Djaq did hear a slight muttering pass through the ranks: "Outlaws…Robin Hood…"

As they reached the door and Will took a swift glance out in either direction, she heard Allan grumble beside her:

"It's always Robin Hood…never Robin's loyal subjects…"

"Shhh, come on," Will said from the door and ushered them out into the comparatively dark and quiet hallway. Seeing that the hall was remarkably free of guards, Will pulled the folded map out of his pocket and smoothed it out on his knee.

"I can't understand it," he said, and Djaq looked up to see Will and Allan staring at her expectantly.

Misinterpreting their intention, she assumed that the map was too roughly drawn to be followed properly, and she searched her brain for another solution. Finding a perfect opportunity to test out the newfound word in her vocabulary, she gestured to the door they'd just passed through.

"Perhaps we should ask the lads in there."

Now it was the boys' turn to look blank.

"What lads?" asked Allan.

She opened her mouth for a sarcastic retort, but the sudden realisation that she might not have properly translated the word "lads," made her face redden.

"The…lads," she said weakly. "It does not mean a group of people?"

Allan began to chuckle.

"Yeah, it's a group of people alright – a group of _man-shaped _people."

Djaq sighed in frustration. She hated being wrong, almost as much as she hated being laughed at.

"Besides," Will was saying. "They probably can't read either."

He handed over Marian's map, and the problem suddenly became clear to her. Will and Allan couldn't read, and it was up to her to read the instructions Marian had scrawled across the hastily-prepared parchment. Glancing over it, she soon had the necessary directions.

"We're close," she told them. "Just up these stairs and down a few halls."

"Lead the way," Allan told her, and this she did, holding the map before her as she went.

* * *

Safiyah awoke on the narrow divan, having fallen asleep there after her father's departure. Groggily, she raised her head – what was that noisy, shuffling sound, as though dozens of people were racing through the halls? And what was that odd smell? It couldn't possibly be smoke…

She jolted to her feet when a scream ripped through the air. Something was happening. Someone was inside her house. Instantly her thoughts raced to her parents, but as she started down the corridor toward her father's room she was met with the sight of thick black smoke pouring from around the corner, along with the pulsating shock of incredible heat. Suddenly the noises she'd only vaguely registered in the back of her mind intensified: along with screaming and the movement of rushing bodies there was the crackle of fire, and the more distant sounds of chaos on the streets. Her drowsy mind quickly shifted into gear as adrenaline poured through her system, and her mind flitted over the possibilities.

A raging fire was cutting off her passage to the bedrooms – and Thomas was still in the surgery room. What if someone had found out he was here? What if her family was being punished for aiding an enemy of the country? Her protective instincts kicked in, and she rushed back to Thomas's door, not bothering to knock as she threw it open. He tumbled out of his small cot in fright, and looked up at her through his dishevelled hair.

"Huh? What's going on?"

"I don't know!" she cried, forcing herself to remain calm. "There's a fire – we have to leave!"

Thomas jumped to his feet and grabbed the small bag that Syed had filled with necessary supplies for his trip to Acre. Safiyah scrabbled about in her father's medical and scientific equipment, unsure of what to take and what to leave – all of his tools were infinitely precious, and couldn't be left to burn.

"Djaq!" Thomas shrieked, and she spun around to see a shadowy figure lumbering toward her, a sword flashing in the dim light. Instinctively her hand reached for the nearest weapon, and closed around a tiny bottle. Praying for a miracle, she flung the contents in the figure's face, and felt a sharp thrill of spiteful glee when her attacker reeled back, screaming in fright and agony.

_Acid, _she thought triumphantly, darting around the stumbling figure and into Thomas, who grabbed her arm and pulled her into the hallway, now full of thick smoke.

"Who was that man?" Thomas cried as Safiyah slammed the door shut behind them, blocking the sounds of pain from her would-be killer.

"Don't know!" she yelled back. It had been too dark to see if he'd been a Saracen or an Englishman. "We have to find my parents!"

They rushed away from the fire that was now billowing out from the end of the hallway, hearing the sounds of panic everywhere. As they turned the corner into the living areas Safiyah skidded on something, and as Thomas roughly hoisted her upright, she realised with mounting horror that it was a pool of blood. She could hear loud crying, and voices screaming out, and horses whinnying in fright from outside. Suddenly some of the voices became clear: they were _English _voices, and they were shouting out instructions to burn and loot the place.

_Crusaders!_ she thought. _Here! In my house!_

Neither one of them were safe, not a young Saracen maiden, nor a man disguised completely in face paint and Eastern clothes. They had to flee while they had the chance, before someone spotted them, but she couldn't abandon her home. She couldn't leave whilst her parents were still somewhere inside.

The instinct to flee crashed inside her head with the desire to find her remaining family, and her indecision gave Thomas the advantage in pulling her along behind him, frantically searching for an exit. Having never seen the interior of Safiyah's house he was running blind, and she could feel his panic increase, though her mind was too frantic with fear and indecision to take charge. They burst through a set of doors into the woman's quarters, and Safiyah charged in, screaming for Fatima.

"She's not here!" she wailed. "My mother!"

From upstairs came the sound of dreadful screaming, and Safiyah quailed at the thought of what might be happening, shrinking away from the noise even as she told herself that she should run to the rescue. Better to be killed as a man than live on as a woman after such horror, and she longed desperately for a weapon – any weapon. She turned to Thomas frantically – all she needed was a knife, but her words disappeared into a strangled yelp at the sight of three armoured crusaders tearing into the room, carrying drawn swords and flaming torches.

"No!" Thomas cried, leaping in front of Safiyah, his arms out in supplication. "I'm English! We're both English!"

But the eyes of the crusaders were hazy with madness and bloodlust, and from behind Thomas's protective body Safiyah's eyes darted around the room for something to defend them with. There was nothing. Never mind then – she would use her teeth and fingernails! A feral growl was rumbling in her throat, she began to crouch in anticipation of springing forward as Thomas continued to stammer and cry out his allegiance.

In the moment before she flew at the invaders, to meet almost certain destruction on their blades, someone else reached them first. A black-clad figure, shrieking and ululating like a crazed spirit tore out from the entrance of the staircase and flung itself at the men, clawing and biting and shaking them with a fury that gave it a wild strength. Fatima had always been such a frail woman, and now with her veil torn away and her slender fingers bent into vicious claws, the writhing, shrieking, hacking sight of a middle-aged woman throwing herself at three fully-armed men seemed nothing short of ludicrous.

With a snarl of vicious pride, Safiyah lunged forward to join her mother in tearing at the infidels, only to let out a howl of defiance when two arms fastened around her waist and began to drag her away. Fury dissipated instantly into stark terror as her mother's body was swiftly overcome by the men she attacked and Safiyah found that all she could do was watch as the indistinct scene of three men overpowering her mother shrank before her eyes as she was dragged away. With a mighty crash Thomas hurled the two of them through the delicate wooden shutters, and fell backwards onto the paved courtyard where she and her brother had spent so many hours in each other's company. Fire roared from the upper stories of the house, screaming and shouting filled the air, but all Safiyah was aware of was the horrific silence that was now coming from the room she had just been pulled from. Why couldn't she hear her mother?

Crying out words that made no sense, Safiyah struggled back to the destroyed window, only to be thwarted once again by Thomas's arms clamping themselves around her shoulders.

"It's over Djaq!" he shouted in her ear. "We have to run!" Far beyond the capacity for words, Safiyah simply screamed and struggled, her hands tearing at the air before her as though she could somehow use it to pull herself forward. But there was nothing to be done as Thomas dragged her backwards, as the fire from the top floor swept over the rest of the house, as in one terrible moment that would haunt her for the rest of her life, the roof collapsed and buried whatever life still remained under its burning weight.

* * *

Hers was not the only house that had been attacked. As the two rushed out into the street it seemed to Safiyah that the whole city was on fire, with armed crusaders crashing through the debris on horses and her own people racing about in every direction, unsure of whether to fight the flames or run for safety – wherever that might be. Either way, they were cut down where they stood, and that night she owed her life to Thomas as he pulled her away, though at the time she felt nothing but hate toward the youth who was forcefully denying her the death that had been rightfully hers.

He yanked her through smoking ruins and darkened streets, clamping a hand over her mouth when her grief and shock could not be contained, and whispering garbled pleas and apologies and orders in her ear. She fought and scratched and tried to bite him, but he was panic-stricken now, finally dragging her into a darkened alley and using his last remaining strength to pin her to the sandy ground.

"It's over Djaq," he told her. "They're gone."

* * *

_True story: I told my sister the outline of this chapter and she started crying. Needless to say, it was not pleasant doing this to my poor Djaq/Safiyah, and I'm afraid it's only going to get worse (there's still a slave-ship to come, remember?)_

_However, the good news (for you lot, anyway) is that Chapter Twelve isn't that far away. When writing this chapter I realised that once again it was FAR too long and I had to make some significant cuts - which means that quite a lot of the next installment is already written. Expect Djaq being rather impressed by Will and Allan's unique abilities at guard-evasion and door-breakage. _

_Reviews always welcome - I like to know that you're out there!_


	12. The Desert

_Just for the record, we're nearing the end of this story - by my estimate there's only about three (possibly four) chapters left. So hang in there!_

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: The Desert**

Nothing stirred but the grains of sand around her fingertips. The sun was rising. Thomas was asleep on the ground, having exhausted himself with terror, hunger and the effort of keeping her quiet. She sat cross-legged on the sand, feeling her body function as usual: beating heart, blinking eyes, expanding and contracting lungs. For reasons she couldn't understand, it was betraying her. All she wanted now was to let death envelop her, so why then did her body insist on prolonging her existence? It did not even allow her the temporary relief of sleep, for despite her fatigue, she could not seem to give herself over to restful darkness.

With indifferent eyes she gazed across the dunes, the empty desert reflecting her own soul: empty and blank, yet with the presence of desert animals darting at the corners of her awareness. Not that she was conscious of this mirror; instead her mind was blankly replaying the events of the past few days. None of it seemed real, especially not whilst she dwelt in this strange netherworld of shifting sand and distant sun. Surely it had been a dream – an odd nightmare born of nerves and grief and worry. Yes…a dream. That was all.

Thomas stirred beside her and hoisted himself up onto his elbows, blinking.

"Djaq?" he asked. "Are you…properly awake?"

She nodded mutely, her eyes still on the horizon. Hazy memories of the past few days flitted through her head: Thomas hoarsely demanding directions from her through the chaos-ridden streets, Thomas dragging her by the hand out into the expanse of the desert, Thomas gently forcing her jaw open so that he could tip water down her throat.

She didn't want him to touch her, but she didn't have the strength to bat him away. So she succumbed to his administrations, letting him complete the work her body had traitorously assumed in keeping her alive. In all that time, he hadn't tried to engage her in any conversation or to waste time with pointless condolences. He'd simply watched her closely, perhaps to make sure she didn't do herself any harm.

But today as he woke, she could see purpose in his movements. She nodded shortly to his question, and watched out the corner of her eye as he gathered together their belongings, stuffing everything into the small knapsack her father had prepared for him. Once finished in his task, he brushed the sand off his pants and looked at her intently.

"Djaq," he told her firmly. "We can't stay here. You have to tell me where we can go to be safe."

She contemplated not answering him, being perfectly content to allow the sands to gradually shift over her until they covered her completely, burying her pain along with her body. But Thomas's restlessness was disturbing her when all she desired now was stillness. He wouldn't go away, that much was certain. He couldn't abandon her without severely jeopardizing his own safety. He would probably drag her, or lift her over his shoulder if it came to it. She blinked slowly, and looked at him properly for the first time since the fire.

"Bassam," she croaked, her voice unused to talking. Slowly the image of the elderly man formed in her mind, his face warm and kindly, his arms spread in a welcoming embrace.

"What?"

"Bassam," she repeated, a little more clearly. "A friend of my…family. We will be safe there. If his home still stands."

Thomas nodded, then hesitantly held out his hand to her. For a few moments she simply looked at it: the pale English hand that had been covered in streaky layers of sweet-smelling dye. Then she took it, and let him pull her to her feet.

* * *

They crept back into the city in the early hours of the morning, treading carefully and keeping to the back-alleyways, both keeping their eyes and ears open for any news. It soon became clear that a small army of Saracen soldiers garrisoned in the city had mustered as soon as the Crusaders' presence became obvious, and launched an attack that took the English by as much surprise as they had taken the civilians the night before. Now Safiyah's people roamed the streets like scavenging dogs, searching for any invaders that had managed to escape the curved blades of the scimitars.

It was a cause for celebration; that the city had been won back successfully only a few hours after it had been lost, but Safiyah felt nothing as they passed smouldering ruins and wailing women, witnessing armoured guards stationed at the closed gates of the city and the white-clad, red-crossed figures of Christian soldiers strung up by the neck at what seemed like every corner. She felt Thomas edge closer to her and take a shuddering breath at the sight of children throwing stones at the limp body of one such knight, swaying morbidly from a length of rope tied to the branch of a tree Safiyah had often played under as a child.

She turned her attention away, ignoring the disturbing sensation of heated glee at the sight, and focused on following the route to Bassam's house – one that was no longer as familiar as it had been a few days ago considering many of the landmarks were now blackened piles of rubble. She began to breath more erratically as they neared the aviary, realizing that there was every chance that Bassam was no one, and her careful steps began to hasten into a wild run.

"Djaq!" she heard Thomas call behind her, but she disregarded him as panic flared up in her and she hurtled around the next corner in desperation. She was close now, so close…but was it to sanctuary or to utter desolation? Surely Allah would spare Bassam – sweet, simple Bassam – whose comforting arms she now craved like a lost child. Yet Allah had no qualms about destroying all those she held dear, so why should Bassam be any different? Her love had been no protection at all, and death it seemed had no sense of fairness when it came to choosing its victims.

She skidded to a halt at the last corner, suddenly too terrified to look. Behind her she heard Thomas run up and slow down again to stand, panting, at her side. She turned to him.

"Tell me – a large building, with large windows and a fountain in the courtyard. Is it still standing?"

He obediently stepped out onto the road and turned his eyes in the direction she gestured. For a few heart-stopping moments she waited as he panted, completely out of breath, his eyes fixed on something that was hidden from her. Then he turned back and nodded.

"Yes. It stands."

With a sob of relief she rushed forward to join him, and drank in the sight of Bassam's house; a bastion of safety and peace that still awaited her.

"Come," she said. "Let us go inside."

* * *

Bassam was in the front entrance when she opened the door and stepped inside, carefully cleaning out a bird tray like nothing had ever, or could ever, change. He glanced up, his wrinkled face clearing in relief as his eyes swept over her.

"Safiyah!" he choked, and hurried forward with his arms open, just as she'd imagined. But calling up the last reserve of her self-control, she held him at arm's length as he tried to hold her.

"_Djaq_," she whispered intently, and then turned to usher Thomas inside. "Bassam – this is Khalid. Perhaps you remember him…you helped bring him to my…" (her voice suddenly quavered) "my father's surgery."

Bassam looked over Thomas, lurking nervously in the doorway. With mixed feelings, Safiyah noted utter incomprehension on Bassam's face and realised the name had confused him. Never mind, she'd explain later. Right now, they needed other necessities.

"Can we-"

"Of course you can. I had gone to your house with the rest of the servants, but everything was…I thought you were _dead_."

His eyes filled with tears, once again he moved to embrace her, and once more she held him back – her resolve was swiftly crumbling, but she couldn't break now, not yet.

Bassam hurried them into the house, calling for food, for water, for clean beds, for medicines and bandages. Servants emerged out of corridors, looking tired and upset, but obediently fetching what was required of them. Safiyah guided Thomas to the guest rooms, telling him that he was to stay there till she fetched him, to not speak at length to any of the servants, to eat and drink and rest. He made a quiet noise of fear as she made to leave, and she knew that his mind was still fixed the sight of his fellow soldiers they had passed on the way here.

"You are safe here," she told him, impatient to be gone, feeling her pain well up beyond her ability to control. Nearly fleeing from the room, long-held tears blurring her vision, she went in search of Bassam and finally gave herself over to her despair, throwing herself into his arms and not caring that the entire household could hear her wails as he quietly told her that her parents' remains had been recovered and laid to rest beside her brother.

* * *

Days passed, and although the pain did not cease, a plan for the future was forming in Safiyah's mind. Mere existence and endurance was giving way to ideas and responsibilities. Thomas was one such responsibility, and an eerie calm was holding sway over as her options finally became clear.

She had explained the entire situation to Bassam in the quiet aviary, telling him of Thomas's true identity and false alias, of the need for her present disguise as Djaq, and her decision to get Thomas to Acre and a ship bound for England.

He listened patiently, (though his face gradually dissolved into an expression of pure horror) and when she was done he gaped speechlessly for a few moments.

"No…Safiyah…you cannot do such a thing-"

"I can and I will. I have worked for eight months to keep that boy alive. And then he repaid his debt…even though I did not want him to."

That was not the only reason, for if she was honest with herself, she knew she could barely stand the sight of Thomas. Even the very thought of him made bitterness and anger well up inside her like the fires that had destroyed half her city. She wanted him gone, along with every other Englishman that walked the earth. But what else could she do with him? Hide him in Bassam's house forever, surrounded by enemies? Leave him to take his chances in getting to Acre alone? No. Both options were unthinkable. Thomas was unfinished business, a task that she alone could perform if she was to honour her father and complete what she had started all those months ago when he had first been brought to her on a canvas bier, bleeding from a gaping wound in his side.

"What about Lord Khalid?" Bassam cried. "What will he make of all this? He thinks you died with the rest of your family. As soon as he finds out you're alive, he'll want to take you away from all this. Don't you see, Saffy – you have a _future_ here."

She shook her head. She knew Bassam would bring this up. But Khalid was one half of a choice that she had not yet made – a choice she _couldn't_ make unless she took Thomas to Acre. So she lied.

"Bassam – I must do this thing. Thomas is my responsibility. As soon as I am back, I shall go to Khalid."

He made a few more protestations after that, telling her that it was too dangerous for a woman, that if she went to Khalid he would probably help her in smuggling Thomas to Acre, even drawing on her parents' wishes concerning her future…but Bassam had known her since she was a child, and was well aware that if she meant to do something, she would do it. So he helped her plan instead.

Within a few hours, she felt confident that this time things would go according to plan. As she'd suspected, her avaricious uncle wasn't about to let a little thing like the death of his sister and the destruction of half the city get in the way of his necessary journey to Acre. He had been outside the city when Djaq had died, and was as yet was unaware that his nephew was dead and buried in the small cemetery on the outskirts of the city. It was simple enough to tell him that Djaq desired to join him on the trip to Acre while his niece was deep in mourning within the house. The gates of the city would open for a well-known merchant and the necessary caravan of goods, servants, bodyguards and horses that went with it – a caravan that would also include his nephew's friend Khalid who was going to his mother's house in Acre.

Therefore Safiyah would take the journey to Acre with Thomas, guiding and protecting him from the other Saracens, and leave him in the busy port city with enough money to book passage home. Then once that was done, once she'd completed her obligation to him, she would make her decision.

* * *

She told Thomas of her intentions, and all he could do was grasp her hands in silent gratitude, and together they packed their belongings. She went through her father's bag, her fingers brushing against the small knife, the carefully wrapped packets of dried food, and the lens of glass that had caused such confusion in Thomas till she explained its purpose to him. She tied a length of leather cord around the neck of her father's acid bottle – the only thing she had managed to salvage from her home – and hung it around her neck. Then they waited together till the morning, grasping what sleep they could before the riskiest journey of their lives.

* * *

Bassam had given her a pigeon as her uncle's motley assortment of travelling companions came to a halt outside the aviary. It was housed in a familiar woven-basket with a strap with which to sling it over her shoulder, and Bassam quietly instructed her to release it with a message once she had completed her purpose in Acre. It would be his signal to let Khalid know she was still alive. She took the gift without words, and then shook his hand solemnly, knowing that her brother had always shied away from hugs.

"I will see you soon," she told him, whilst at the same time wondering if she would ever see him again. Bassam didn't know it, but she was hovering on a precipice between two choices, only one of which included him. And yet this quiet, peaceful place was a third option that she had considered claiming as her own. A part of her wanted to stay in the dream-like world that Bassam inhabited, the world of cool tiled floors and trickling water fountains. Here nothing of consequence ever happened. Here nothing changed – not even a Crusader attack had disrupted the household routine as time quietly ebbed away. Here she could shut herself away from life, letting it drift along outside the windows without her, living only in the flight of pigeons.

But no – that would not be proper tribute to her family. The daughter of Syed would not choose the shadow of a life. She would choose either life or death in their entirety, according to what would be revealed to her in the desert. There she would find her answer – and what it was she was meant to be.

* * *

The three of them crept up the stairs, taking turns to dart ahead and check for any wandering guards. Djaq didn't like the gloomy atmosphere, nor the idea that there could be guards stationed in any one of the deep alcoves that lined the dark hallway. And now, as she glanced at Marian's map, a new worry was forming in her mind.

"What if we come across a locked door?" she whispered to Allan as Will took his turn to move ahead and scout out the next corridor.

"No worries," he told her confidently. "I can pick any lock in this place."

From ahead, Will beckoned them forward. "I think the coast is clear," he whispered. "What does the map say?"

Djaq consulted Marian's route, tracing the thin line with her finger for the benefit of the boys leaning over her shoulders. "This way," she said. "Behind that door are the guest quarters. Here, Marian has written _'many guards'_, so we must be careful. But Khalid's room is not far away."

She hoped they had not noticed the quaver in her voice.

They let her take the lead as she headed down the right-hand corridor, till they came to the heavy oak-wood door marked on the map. Allan reached out to turn the handle and – as she'd feared – found that it was locked. She looked up at him expectantly.

"Yeah, yeah…Will – go guard the passage. I'll take care of this."

Will obediently trotted back to the intersection in the hallway while Allan knelt down, put the bundle of robes on the floor and peered intently at the lock. A little too intently. She was beginning to get suspicious.

"You _can_ open this door, can't you?" she asked.

"Mmm-hmm."

"What are you going to do? Pick the lock with a hair pin?"

His face suddenly brightened with inspiration, and he held up his hand to her as if expecting her to do something.

"What?" she asked.

"Well, give it to me."

"Give you what?"

"The _hairpin_."

She stared at him incredulously.

"I haven't got a hairpin!"

"Why not? You're a…"

His eyes suddenly flicked up to her cropped head of hair.

"Right. Well, why should _I_ have one?"

"You told me you could pick any lock in this place. I had assumed you already _had_ one."

They glared at each other for a moment, but Djaq was appalled to feel the corners of her mouth twitching. She should be furious – so why then was she fighting the urge to _laugh_?

At that moment Will returned. "What's taking so long?"

"We don't have a hairpin," Allan told him.

"We can't get through this door," Djaq clarified, noting Will's baffled face.

He gestured them aside and peered at the door closely, running his hands over the surface of the wood and then turning his attention to its edge. A tiny smile crossed his face as he drew the small axe from its holster and gave the pins inside the hinges a few small taps. Once loosened, it was only a small matter of sliding them out of the hinges and quietly pulling the door away from its frame. He beamed under Djaq's admiring glance (whilst simultaneously ignoring Allan's scowl) as they slipped through the gap between door and wall.

* * *

Consulting the map one last time, Djaq took a deep breath at the sight of a row of doorways stretching down the corridor. According to Marian's instructions, Khalid's room was around the next corner, in the room beyond the fifth door down.

His axe still in hand, Will took the lead again. Djaq was close behind, her heart hammering in her chest, whilst Allan lagged behind to watch their backs. Now that she was nearly at her destination, a thousand thoughts were rushing through her mind. How would he react? What exactly was she going to say? Would she be strong enough to follow through on her intentions? By Allah – what if he wasn't even _there_?

She was so distracted with worry that she nearly gave a shriek of fright when an armoured guard stepped out in front of Will, causing him to ground to a halt, and her to bump into him from behind.

"Oy – what are you two doing here?" the hulking man rasped threatening, the eyes beneath his helmet moving between the two of them as though choosing which one to skewer with his sword first.

Will opened and closed his mouth helplessly, whilst Djaq's delayed reactions left her fumbling for her sword.

"Uh, we're…we're…" Will managed to stutter.

The guard opened his mouth to bellow, but before any words could escape, another voice cut through the tension.

"Hey – why have you two stopped?"

Allan marched up from behind and glared at them impatiently before turning to the guard.

"Did you tell them to stop?" he demanded.

"Er – yes. You lot have got no business up here, and-"

Allan cut him off with a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Oh don't we? I'll have you know that we have important information about the runaway Saracen women that needs to be delivered to Kh…Ka…to the Saracen Lord straight away. We were let in at the gate, it's all been arranged. Guy of Gisbourne himself sent us up here."

"I…are you-"

The guard was interrupted by another volley of words pouring from Allan's mouth.

"Look 'ere, this young fella is the man's own servant! He knows where the woman is, but we don't have much time if we want to catch her!"

Allan pushed Djaq forward, who responded by launching her own torrent of frantic words at the guard – all Arabic gibberish to his ignorant ears.

"Well, I suppose-"

"I hope Lord What's-his-Face isn't in one of his black moods today. He won't be happy to know that you've held up his search. Have you ever seen an angry Saracen? Count yerself lucky if you haven't."

The guard continued to gape, his hand flitting between his waist and his sword hilt uncertainly.

'Ere, you want to make yerself useful? Take these clothes down to the laundry. They're the sheriff's own pyjamas. I'm sure you'd get a few extra coins for a job well done."

He thrust the pile of robes into the guard's arms, forcing him to take his hand away from his sword. The guard wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"They stink."

"So does the sheriff. Go! Hurry!" Allan barked, and the guard – well used to taking orders from those who seemed to know what they were doing, and not questioning the improbable fact that someone like Allan would be wandering the castle with the sheriff's pyjamas – obeyed without another word.

Allan watched him go, and then turned to the others with a cheery smile, gesturing to the clear passage ahead.

"Shall we?"

* * *

The trembling started as they approached the doorway, her breath hitching in her throat. Was she ready for this? It wasn't too late to head back, to make for the forest and hide away till the danger had passed.

"Do you want us to come inside with you?"

Will's voice broke through her anxiety, and she took a moment to look at the faces of the men next to her: Will's filled with concern, Allan's with curiosity. She took a deep breath, knowing that it would be wrong to back out now – not after all they'd done to get her this far.

"No. I shall be fine. If he is not there, I will wait for him. You two should leave. I can find my own way out."

Allan shook his head.

"No, we'll wait for you," he said, and she nodded as the two of them drew back into one of the shadowy alcoves lining the walls. Then turning back to the door she gently leaned against it, pressing her ear to the wooden surface.

She could hear the sounds of movement within. Taking one last deep breath, she unfastened the latch, and let herself in.

* * *

_I'm cruel, aren't I. But I promise that in the next chapter all shall be revealed. Well, almost everything. At the very least, you'll find out what happened to Thomas._


	13. Shadows

_Please don't hate me for this chapter. It had to happen. Explanation to follow._

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Thirteen: Shadows**

The heat and monotony of the desert was oddly comforting, that heavy weight of anguish within her becoming dulled by the steady rhythm of her pace through the sand. Had she been more aware of the effect she was having on her travelling companions, the word she would have chosen to describe herself was "numb." As it was, it was that precise state of mind that made the rest of the caravan's company leave her to her own devices, instinctively sensing that she didn't want to be approached or engaged in conversation. Thomas stayed close by, perhaps hoping that her aloofness might extend to him so that the Saracens would be less inclined to notice him. His presence flittered at the corners of her consciousness, a bothersome task that she longed to be rid of. She had her own plans to make after his departure.

Her uncle hadn't questioned her story about "Khalid" when she informed him of her friend's desire to travel with them to Acre, but simply nodded them into their places among the fellow merchants, servants and mercenaries hired to guard their passage to the coast. Naturally, Thomas was twitching with nerves, responding to several greetings with a mere nod of his head, and refusing to speak to anyone except Djaq herself. Finally she was forced to announce that he was suffering from a throat infection, and that all must excuse him from his perceived rudeness. They seemed to accept that explanation, and between her stony expression and his sudden onslaught of hacking coughs, gave them a wide berth. Thomas tried to whisper to her in Arabic sometimes, but her answers were short and terse. He seemed to think her demeanour stemmed from grief rather than hate, and so satisfied himself by trailing her footprints in the day and laying his blanket down beside hers in the night.

During the day her mind was blank, the distance between desert and sea possessing a restful quality that stilled the turmoil in her mind. At times it would all come upon her again, the terrible loss that was awaiting her when she returned to the city, but in many ways her grief was too large for her relatively tiny body, and any inopportune outbursts were silenced by the sheer intensity of them. Her body simply did not have the strength it required to demonstrate her pain. And so, in her inability to voice herself, she remained silent.

It was the nights that were the worst, in which the wall she'd placed between her mind and her grief faltered and she was forced to confront the choice before her, the decision she had to come to by the time Thomas was safely on a boat back to England. She could return to Bassam's house where Safiyah was waiting, hidden safely away in mourning till the time came to reclaim her, and live the life that her parents had wanted for her. The life that _she_ was supposed to want.

Or she could remain Djaq and continue what he'd started. She'd find a sword and join the army. She'd throw herself into the war against the Crusaders and die like her brother had. Because when she really considered it, what was really waiting for her back home? A life hidden behind a veil, secluded away in a grand estate, reduced to a pair of bright eyes and a subservient manner. No – far better to die on the battlefield, killing Englishmen until one of them killed her. Then she'd be reunited with her brother, and they'd laugh together at the shock on the men's faces as either enemies or allies – it didn't matter which - discovered that it had been a woman who had caused so much carnage.

That night, she carefully took her father's knife from its place in Thomas's bag, her fingers brushing against her father's glass lens in the process. She almost gasped at her sudden recollection of Syed's spindly fingers demonstrating how the sun's heat could be projected through its surface to create fire, but she forced it down. She was quickly learning to contain her emotions by picturing a firm wall between her heart and head, preventing the two of them from interfering with one other.

Then she stole away from the camp into the wider expanse of the desert. For a few moments she stood, feeling as though some greater force was guiding her now. She knew that once she started on the course it had prepared for her, there was to be no returning to the life she knew – no return to the life had once Khalid offered her. But that life was already over – it had died along with her family. There was to be no more secretive lessons with her father in the darkened surgery, no more feel of her mother's fingers combing through her hair, no more jokes or trickery with her brother. All of that was gone.

Carefully, she unwound the turban from her head and let it settle in the sand at her feet. Then, she unhesitatingly caught up a chuck of hair in her hand and sliced the blade through its length. This was the last step. As she hacked at her waist-length head of hair she found herself hypnotised by the sawing of the knife at increasingly higher levels till she wore no more than cropped stubble atop her crown, watching the strands of hair escape her fingers and disappear over the sands. They were like living creatures – elegant little figures that danced away to their freedom in the slight breeze like something out of a dream.

Finally she shook her head, scraping her fingers through the scruff of hair left, making sure there were no tell-tale strands of womanly length that had escaped the knife's edge. Then she stood for a moment, watching the shadowy remainder of Safiyah sway and twist away into the distance, and felt that she should be laughing. Laughing because in all those months, Thomas had never known he'd been tended to by a female; a female who had just rid herself of the last possible symbol of her identity. But of course, she couldn't laugh. Not now. Yet there was dim comfort to be found in the realisation that such an emotion still existed.

* * *

"What do you think is happening in there?" Will asked, fidgeting.

Allan shrugged. "Don't know."

"But what do you _think _is happening."

"I don't _know_."

Will gave a frustrated sigh and resumed his place. They had been waiting for what had felt like hours – in fact, it probably _had _been hours, judging by the beam of sunlight streaming through a window at the end of the hall. It had slowly withdrawn as time passed, and gradually dimmed from bright yellow to a strange reddish rue as evening fell. Every once in a while Will would creep out of the alcove and scouted around the area, checking behind doors and down hallways - partly to secure their safety and partly to relieve his tension. They'd heard the guard return and resume his place in the corridor adjacent to theirs, blocking off their exit in that direction, but Will had another plan brewing, a plan born out of a rather interesting discovery he'd found in one of the store cupboards.

But for now, he gazed restlessly at Allan, who was leaning lethargically against the cold stone wall with his eyes closed, looking the very picture of relaxation. Nothing was to be heard from within the small room opposite them. The stone walls and wooden door were too thick for that – though sometimes Will fancied he could hear the faint murmuring of a conversation.

Finally, the door creaked open, and Djaq stepped out. She took a deep breath – one to match the one she'd taken on entering – and exhaled as her eyes found the shadowy figures of Will and Allan.

"I'm finished," she told them.

Will looked at her carefully as Allan roused himself from his half-sleep. She didn't look any different – no signs of any tears or deep emotion. She was as composed as she'd always been, acting as though nothing of any great consequence had passed in the time she'd been gone. He felt confused, but relieved.

Now Djaq took the initiative in planning their escape.

"Has the guard retuned?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah," Allan answered her, and she could tell that despite his careless attitude, he was burning with questions. "We heard 'im clomp up the stairs not long after you went in. Best not to go back that way. 'E's probably figured out that them rags weren't pyjamas."

She nodded.

"Very well. But Marian's map only told us how to get here."

"Ah – we can get out the easy way. Find some guards that look about our size and relieve them of their clothing."

"Or," said Will. "We could just get what we need from the armoury. I found it just down this way."

They followed him down the hallway, and Will ushered them through the door he'd found earlier that led to a small room lined with armour, shields, weapons, helmets and other guard paraphernalia.

"Ooh, nice," Allan said, stepping inside.

"Much of this seems very old," Djaq remarked, peering at the gear. "Or broken."

The rusted nose-guard of a helmet had just broken off in her hand as she'd picked it up. Allan gave a groan.

"This ain't an armoury. This is a junk-cupboard. Everyone chucks their old gear in here when they can't be bovvered to get it repaired."

"It doesn't matter," Will said, not wanting his new discovery to go to waste and choosing for himself a somewhat holey suit of chain-mail. "It's getting dark. No one will notice."

Allan shrugged and followed suit, yanking a similar suit over his own clothes.

But a problem soon emerged as Djaq poked about for her own disguise. There was nothing small enough for her, and they couldn't figure out what would be more noticeable: a guard clunking about in a uniform too big for him, or a dimunitive Saracen boy marching about with Englishmen.

It wasn't too long before Allan came up with a solution, though it was much to Djaq's displeasure since it involved her hands being tied together and her sword once again being placed in Will's possession. Will and Allan surveyed their 'prisoner', both thinking that the grumpy expression on her face rather suited the role required of her – though neither thought it especially wise to point out to her.

Yet as they exited the half-forgotten storage room, both of them taking her by the elbows and shuffling a little awkwardly in the armour and helmets that were in desperate need of repair, Djaq felt herself relax. The hardest part was over for her, and now she could simply let them guide her now, trusting them to find their way out. It left her free to mull over the events that had taken place in that strange room and her conflicting feelings concerning them. Her feet moved of their own accord as Allan and Will marched her down stairs and through corridors, and though neither were completely sure as to where they were going, they did not arouse much notice from any passing guard who simply assumed they were escorting a prisoner to the dungeons.

* * *

The sun was setting by the time they reached the outer courtyard, quickly clattering down the stairs of the main entrance of the castle and heading for the wide gate. Speed overtook discretion in their desire to be gone and in the knowledge that this was the most precarious part of their scheme – taking a prisoner out the castle gates was sure to raise heads. Guards milled about in the shadowy darkness, the end of the day allowing them some measure of relaxation as they awaited the night-watch to relive them of their posts, but Djaq was all-to-aware of the flicker of interested eyes as two of their fellows briskly marched a prisoner toward freedom. The three outlaws were halfway across the flagstones when an authoritative voice rang out:

"Oy! You there!"

Will automatically hesitated, while Allan determinedly strode forward, and Djaq found herself yanked between the two of them.

"Will!" Allan hissed through his teeth.

"Too far away to run," Will muttered back. "Have to bluff."

"Tell them I'm a servant. Khalid's servant – done wrong," Djaq just managed to whisper, throwing out a half-formed idea and praying either Allan or Will caught on to her somewhat incoherent plan. A second later, what looked like a highly-ranked guard strode up to them with several others drifting along in his wake, mildly curious as to what was going on.

"Is this a prisoner?" the commander demanded. "Where are you taking him?"

Djaq dipped her heard down as Allan cleared his throat.

"This 'ere is one of the Saracen Lord's servants. He was caught stealin', and now 'is Lordship wants 'im thrown out into the forest. Says its proper punishment for the likes of 'im. See how well 'e does without the comforts of 'is Lord's favour."

The commander raised an eyebrow.

"I thought that Saracens punished thieves by cutting off their right hands."

Allan struggled for a moment, and Will swiftly picked up the thread.

"He's very young," Will said by way of explanation. "The Lord says to take him to the middle of Sherwood and if he can make his way back, then he'll be forgiven."

As Djaq burned with shame at the echo of her own words regarding Will Scarlett being bounced back at her, Allan gave her a cuff round the back of the head – one that presumably _looked_ rougher than it felt. She lowered her chin further as the man scrutinised her, and after a few moments in which she was sure her heart had managed to squeeze itself into half its normal size, he finally nodded and stepped back.

Djaq allowed herself a tiny sigh of relief. Then – without thinking – she made her mistake. She glanced up as the guards backed away, and her eyes locked fatally with one standing just to the left of the commander, and she was a millisecond too late in breaking eye contact. He had recognised her as the woman from Locksley. As though trapped by their mutual awareness of each other, she could only watch in dismay as realisation dawned on his piggish little face that she'd last seen disappearing from view behind the back of his twisted helmet.

Yet as Allan and Will shifted her away, the finger that he'd tentatively raised had dropped and his gaping mouth had closed. Despite the fright pulsating through her mind, she knew why he didn't expose her. His greed. Had he pointed her out in the midst of the guards, a brawl could easily emerge as to who got to claim her reward money.

Though her heart still pounded at the shock, her fear subsided as they finally reached the raised portcullis and slipped underneath. There was nothing he could do about it now as tomorrow Khalid would renounce the bounty on her capture. She was worthless now; just a simple peasant living in the forest. That thought, along with the sight of the winding streets of Nottingham filled her with unexpected elation. The word _home _had sprung to her mind unbidden as she thought of trees and a campfire and a rolled out blanket just for her.

"Let's hurry," she whispered as they passed through into the township. Once they were out of sight of the castle entrance, Will whipped the rope loose from her wrists and the three of them briskly trotted into the blissful darkness of the streets.

* * *

In hindsight, she realized it was the mercenaries that had doomed them – the presence of armed men suggested that there were valuables to be had. Perhaps it would have been wiser to disguise themselves as poor nomads or refugees, but then, her uncle had always been a coward.

Although she missed the weight of her hair swishing against her back, she was surprised to find that she quite liked the freedom that short hair afforded her – and not just because she no longer had to worry about the security of the turban wrapped around her head. With her head and hair exposed, she felt more comfortable in her role as Djaq and as a boy. She tried to adopt her brother's swagger and mannerisms for her own, and found that she could appreciate the way in which men lived their lives – straightforward and stoically, without any of the silly gossip or pointless primping that had so frustrated her in the woman's quarters. Of course, there were several ribald jokes and stories told about various girls and their anatomy that she hadn't expected, having experienced a man's view of womankind only through love poetry and the teachings of the Koran. Yet it was hardly surprising that the lofty pedestal upon which she'd been raised to stand on was the work of over-imaginative poets, and she was rather fascinated by this new viewpoint of women that the other men displayed around the campfire each night.

Thomas was getting more getting more and more cheerful as they neared the end of her journey, and he'd taken the lifting of her spirits as a sign that he could talk to her again – attempts that were quickly brushed off. Yet every night when the others were asleep she watched him rub the dye over himself – "running low," she heard him mutter one night, and she closed her eyes in consternation. The dye would have to last, there was no other way about it. As much as she'd come to despise him, it was essential that he survived, and not just because of all the hard work she'd put into saving him. He had to return to England to fulfil the vow he'd sworn to her – to work toward a peaceful resolution to the war. It was perhaps her own source of redemption against what she planned to do with the remainder of her life. That was her plan, and she considered it a good one.

It was in the early morning light, two days out from Acre, that she found herself pondering it, hoping that it would work out the way she intended. Thomas was lagging in her footsteps as usual, humming softly to himself, and the rest of her companions were feeling light-hearted at the thought of being so close to their destination. Knowing that she was drawing ever-closer to her own destiny, she made a tiny fist, strengthing her resolve. She was ready for this, she almost looked forward to what she now had to do. She'd get Thomas on a ship, find a sword, join the army and then unleash all her pain and fury on those that had caused it…

…it was then she heard a strange sort of gasp behind her. She turned curiously, and gazed into Thomas's face. His eyes were bulging and his mouth agape, whilst one hand reached out to her. For a millisecond she absurdly thought that he was deliberately pulling a face at her and all she could do was stop and stare in puzzled wonderment. Then he tumbled face-down onto the sand and she registered the hilt of a knife sticking out of the nape of his neck. She couldn't even scream – only watch as one of the mercenaries leaned down and yanked the knife from Thomas's skin – the white skin of his neck that he had once again forgotten to cover in dye.

"A spy!" the man cried, brandishing his knife. "An English spy!"

Her mind was blank as she watched several others lean over to exclaim over the sight and kick or spit on the body at their feet. She half-listened as her uncle began to defend his nephew against accusations that Djaq had known the true identity of his friend before the journey had begun, and as an argument arose as to who was to claim ownership of the dead man's possessions.

That was all there was to see. They moved on, her uncle gently pushing her back into formation. But she didn't hear or feel anything, not even when the Crusaders appeared over the sand dunes a few hours later and surrounded the caravan, shooting down those who attempted to fight back. She couldn't manage a reaction even when her uncle's throat was slit as he attempted to prevent the men from taking his horses.

From a foggy distance she watched as the wicker basket was torn from her shoulder and opened, the pigeon inside breaking free with a clatter of wings and racing toward home. Thomas's bag and its contents were taken by a tall, business-like man who appeared to be in charge.

She didn't struggle like the others when they bound her with rope and made her kneel with the others in a line; only watched passively as the tall man strolled down before them, choosing those who were deemed suitable and murdering those who were not. She vaguely hoped he'd do her the same service, since it wouldn't have mattered if he killed her. She wasn't alive anyway. None of this was real. But for reasons unknown he passed her by.

It was only once they'd reached the ship at port, once she'd been hefted up onto its deck and fastened with clinking manacles around her wrists and ankles that she felt a glimmer of feeling return – a deep, dark despair at the sight of the terrible gaping blackness of the hold, like a mouth ready to devour her. She allowed herself a tiny moan before she was shoved down into it.

* * *

Geoffrey Weymouth, unmarried and childless, didn't particularly like being a castle guard. Despite the hot meals and the gradually increasing pile of copper coins accumulating under his cot, there were many downsides that often made him wonder if the sensation of sending the occasional child scurrying from his path was really worth Guy of Gisbourne's callous indifference to the wellbeing of his soldiers or the sheriff's terrifying rampages that could sometimes end in badly wounded subordinates. Outlaw activity had been on the rise lately, and despite rumours that Robin Hood never took a life, Geoffrey had seen enough of the bloody aftermath of Hood's forays into Castle Nottingham to make him seriously doubt that claim. To top it off, he'd once caught a glimpse of the Night Watchman flitting like a ghost along the parapets, his reaction to which had earned him the nickname 'Sir Shrieks-a-lot' by the other guards.

He felt it was time to move on – and since this Saracen Lord had set himself up in Nottingham, winning over the sheriff with chests of Eastern treasures, Geoffrey had played with the fantasy of returning the wayward Saracen woman to her master. The reward was immense – more substantial than the committed bachelor had ever dreamed a woman could be worth, but with that kind of money he could quit this dreary, dangerous place for good and set himself up nicely in some other district. Maybe even pass himself off as a noble…

And so when a routine search for outlaws at Locksley had unexpectedly revealed this woman, it had seemed that angels were finally paying attention to Geoffrey of Weymouth.

Till a twist of his helmet and an excruciating kick to the groin had proved otherwise.

But now, here she was again, once again appearing out of the blue like a fey-creature out of an old wives' tale that promised riches if only one could hold on to her. Except she was in the possession of two others, the object of some dubious story that involved taking her out to Sherwood Forest. Why they were taking her from the castle was a mystery. But it didn't matter. Geoffrey was not a man prone to worry about the doings of others – all that mattered to him was attaining what was obviously meant to be his.

Announcing her presence whilst surrounded by his fellow guards would be an utter mistake, but now he would have to move quickly. Going straight to the Saracen Lord himself would take too long – he would be shuffled back and forth between servants and retainers before finally being granted an audience with no woman in his grasp to show for it. Yet he couldn't do this by himself, not without some witness to the cleverness with which he'd seen through the woman's disguise.

Geoffrey walked quickly around the side of the castle, out of sight of the others, and shed the more bulky aspects of his uniform, abandoning his pike in favour of his sword. Then, at a run, he made for the dormitories designed for less-exalted guests and rapped smartly on one of the doors.

From inside, he heard the sound of a chair scraped back, and a moment later a man opened the door. Geoffrey knew this man only as Mark Hayworth, a merchant from the shore. But he was the man who had led the Saracen envoy to Nottingham Castle, having fought through Robin Hood and all his men in order to bring the tribute safely to the sheriff's coffers. Or so he said.

"Sir," Geoffrey said, knowing that a little flattery would go a long way. "I know the whereabouts of the Saracen woman!"

Mark at once snapped to attention.

"Where? Have you made sure she can't escape?"

"No, I haven't caught her yet. She's just left the castle with two guards. If we hurry we can apprehend her and deliver her to your Lord."

Mark's eyes widened, and Geoffrey was shrewd enough to see a glint of greed in the man's expression. He would have to keep on guard around this one, at least until he had his reward safety delivered to him. But for now he needed him.

"I have no horse, and you don't know what way they went," Geoffrey said urgently. "And she moves further away with each passing moment."

It wasn't long before the two of them were mounted on the horses that the generous Saracen had awarded Mark in payment for his services. Already feeling it might be too late, (how long had it been since the men had dragged her away?) the men cantered out into the streets.

"They said they were heading for the forest," Geoffrey said. "And I watched them head down the main street in that direction. We should be able to catch up with them if we hurry. They had some cock-and-bull story about how she was a thief that needed to be punished for stealing."

Mark's eyes flickered in the lamplights of the streets, and suddenly Geoffrey had the distinct feeling that Mark understood something that he didn't.

"I can't understand why they'd take her into the forest instead of collecting the reward," he continued, hoping to catch on.

Mark looked at him witheringly. "Can't you?"

With that Geoffrey understood, and felt revulsion trickling through his veins. Englishmen, and a Saracen woman? He could see why they might be curious, but such a thing was still an abomination.

Geoffrey spurred his horse into a gallop, his lust for gold rapidly overcome by disgust. He just hoped that the Saracen Lord would still _want _her after the guards were done. He'd just have to hurry, and cut them off before they reached the forest's edge.

* * *

_So yeah…I killed Thomas. I feel really bad about it, and I hope it doesn't feel like a cop-out because I honestly had this planned right from the beginning (I tried to foreshadow it with the constant reminders of Thomas's pale neck). I almost gave him a reprieve when I realised how fond some readers were getting of him (and considering how much pain Djaq had already been though), but it had to happen. First of all, because it was the only way for Djaq to get over her hate for the English – if she were to see that her own people were just as capable of cruelty and prejudice. Second of all, I couldn't envision Djaq letting herself be taken alive by slave-traders unless she was in a state of shock. And there was only one way to get her into that state. But there is more to be said on Thomas, and naturally he's going to have a big impact on why Djaq chooses to stay in England. But...I'm really sorry...I promise more uplifting things in future. It's well-past time to give Djaq some happiness._


	14. A Physician's Hands

_No, your eyes don't decieve you, this is an update - the quickest update I've ever done. The finish line is in sight, and I've got that last burst of energy you get at the end of a race that drives you forward..._

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: A Physician's Hands**

The quickest way to the forest was straight ahead through the wide streets of Nottingham, through the main gates and then across the greensward to where the trees were beckoning. The scent of the forest rose up to meet her; every twig and leaf was illuminated by the light of the brilliant moon. Though guilt still mingled with regret in her mind, her heart suddenly felt lighter, as if she'd just shed a heavy burden. She knew she was feeling the lightness of spirit that came after a decision had been made, and she quietly revealed in the springy feeling of weightlessness in her body as the forest neared.

Suddenly Will stopped and cocked his head to the side.

"Do you hear that?" he asked. Allan and Djaq stopped, turning their eyes toward him, and then as one, all three of them turned their bodies to face Nottingham.

"Horses," Allan said somewhat unnecessarily, as two dark figures emerged at a gallop from the wide gates. The rhythm of the horses' hooves echoed over the still countryside.

"Coming this way…" Djaq added as the riders suddenly swung their horses in their direction. For a moment the three outlaws stood still, as if the steady thrumming sound held them under a spell. Then, as the riders closed in they began to back up slowly.

"Friend or foe?" Will asked.

"Knowing our luck…" Allan's sentence didn't need completion. The three of them turned and bolted toward the trees.

Within moments they were among the leafy undergrowth and dark trees, but the crash of horses behind them was more than enough to inform them that their pursuers hadn't given up the chase. The moon's light was dimmer here, as well as confusing, being forced as it were to break through the swaying canopy of trees and create confusing shadows and pools of silver light. Never a quick runner, Djaq was finding it difficult to keep up with Allan and Will, but refused to call out and slow them down. Yet as she scrambled up a slope, pulling herself up by a low-hanging tree branch, she found that her newfound weightlessness did not only stem from the release of her tension, but from the fact that Will still had her sword.

A cold shiver of fear rushed up her spine.

Bounding over rocks and tree roots, Djaq felt her vial of acid slip out from underneath her vest and she grasped it with one hand. Distracted, she tried to pull the cord over her head, planning to use its contents as a weapon as she once had before, when the ground abruptly disappeared from beneath her feet. Grunting and gasping, Djaq rolled down the short but steep precipice, the vial flying from her grasp, stones and bracken scouring her body. She hit the ground heavily, and lay winded for a few moments, hearing only the wind through the leaves and the scuffle of animals in the underbrush. Slowly she hauled herself upright, wincing at the movement of her battered body, and then glanced around for her vial. Concern turned to panic as she failed to find it anywhere among the leaf-fall. _It can't be gone_, she thought frantically as she scrabbled about in the leaves. _Not after carrying it this far._

She froze as she heard a sound from overhead. Was it Will? Allan? No…it was the unmistakable sound of horse hooves. Exhaustion suddenly overtook her. Why couldn't the world just leave her be? Every way she turned she was set upon by danger or intrigue, obligation or duty, slavers or Crusaders, unwelcome faces from the past or teenage boys creeping up on her while she bathed. All she wanted to do now was dig herself a hole, curl up in it and sleep for the rest of her life.

She hung her head for a moment, letting her tiredness pass over her, then sprung to her feet and sprinted as quickly as she could away from the shuffling sound of the horse.

* * *

Mark pulled his mount to a halt, gesturing to Geoffrey to do the same, and listened intently. A glimmer had caught his eye. There, halfway down a steep slope, something small was swinging back and forth from a cord caught on a thin branch. It was glinting in the moonlight with each sway, and as the forest quietened with the horses' stillness, he heard a soft noise. A body moving - and then a sudden silence that was more telling than any normal forest sound could be.

The silence stretched on for a few more heartbeats – and then the sudden crash of a body hurtling through the undergrowth. Geoffrey's head shot up and he instantly spurred his horse forward in the direction of the noise, a rare grin pulling up the corners of his mouth. Mark followed at a slower pace, being quite content to let Geoffrey do the hard work. As he passed, he leaned down in his saddle in order to grab the dangling trinket from the branch. He knew what it was, where he'd seen it before, and who it belonged to.

* * *

She was weakening. She could feel her body deteriorating with every day that passed, a combined effort from the weak stew, dirty water and stinking hold. Surely the dark and rancid ship in which cockroaches crawled over feet and the stench of unwashed bodies that made her retch was the closest mankind had ever come to creating hell. Only her detachment from the world kept her from going mad, locking herself away in strange half-dreams and memories.

As the days passed, she felt her consciousness slip deep inside herself, loosing herself, becoming just a part of the ship, as inanimate as the boards she sat on and the chains that held her. And eventually, she became even less than that, merging with the swaying motion of the ship as it took her further from home till she thought of herself as nothing more than a rocking sensation.

Sometimes, in the midst of her black indifference, a sudden memory would come upon her, and she would find herself pondering that girl she'd once known. Safiyah, she'd been called – a girl who had lived a life full of secrets. Had it really been a life when most of it had been concealed away from the world? Maybe she'd never really existed; maybe she'd only been a dream that her father or mother or brother had thought up in order to share their own secrets with.

All she'd really had to call her own had been the flight of pigeons and a boy she'd nursed back to health. A boy who was dead now, just like everything else. Maybe he'd never existed either. He'd been her dream; a way to justify Safiyah's strange half-life. And once Safiyah had ceased to exist, bourn away on the dark threads of her hair, he had disappeared back into nothingness.

There were half-hearted attempts by the others to talk to her but she ignored them, and soon all had fallen in to a stupor, broken only by the daily slops served to them in filthy bowls, and the occasional yanking on their chains that forced them up through the hatch and into the painfully bright sunlight that burnt their eyes cruelly. She would often eye the water speculatively, wondering if she could fling herself into its depths, but quickly conceded that it was impossible when shackled to her fellow slaves. It was only up here, among the regular work of the crew and the glinting sight of the ocean that awareness of her surroundings stirred in her again.

The sun beat down on her head like a sweaty hand, and her eyes drooped listlessly. The men in charge of the slaves forced her to eat and drink, and she let them, knowing it didn't matter now. Yet despite her efforts, death avoided her – perhaps just as afraid of her blank, deadened stare as her captors were.

Only one ever spoke to her, a middle-aged man who seemed to be shunned by the other men on account of his terribly disfigured face. Where the others were rough and impatient, often venting their frustration at her impassivity with a sharp slap across the face when the food or drink inevitably dripped down her chin, he was gentle. He would talk to her, despite the fact that – for all he knew – the slave standing before him didn't understand a word he was saying. Sometimes she would ignore him, other times she would pay heed to his chatter. He was going home after a long exile in the Holy Land, having saved up enough money through the slave trade to buy himself some land. A tract of land – perhaps a farm - where no one would bother him. He'd talk about England: the trees, the lakes, the meadows and ale, but was only when the ship neared its destination that she really began to pay attention.

He told her that there was a buyer all sorted out when they got into port – a man named Brooker, who was shrewd enough not to mistreat them. She supposed it was his odd way of comforting her, perhaps an oddly-formed apology from a man who had brought his own freedom off her captivity. But she couldn't muster any hate for such a man. Not after what her own people had done to Thomas.

Maybe it was that thought alone that kept her alive. That Englishmen had killed Djaq. That Saracens had killed Thomas. A life for a life. Now as the ship neared England, that sense of unfair justice awakened her senses once more. Escape had been impossible on a ship, but perhaps once on land she would find the opportunity to rid herself of these men and find a way back home.

But when the ship finally sailed into port, her hope failed. She was in enemy territory now, and once she was realised from her shackles, she was too weak to mount even the most pitiful attack against the men who had to carry her from the ship to the barred wagon that awaited her.

"Hey, hang on!" she heard a voice yell, and she was unceremoniously dropped on the dusty ground as a portly man leapt down from the driver's seat of the cart. This, she assumed, was Brooker. He peered down at her suspiciously as he fingered the knife on his belt. One of her fists slowly clenched the English soil beneath her hand, preparing a pitiful defence should he try anything.

"This one looks half dead!" he cried. "He'll be no good in the mines in that state."

There was muttering among the sailors, and she tried to raise her head, to argue her right to life, in English if she had to.

"Ah, he'll be alright," a gruff voice said. "Just a bit shook up that's all."

The man with the hideous face grabbed her under the arms and pulled her to her feet, hoisting her into the cage and the helping hands of her fellow Saracens with a strength she wouldn't have thought possible in such a grizzled old man. He closed the cage door firmly behind her, cutting her off from Brooker. The man looked at her once more as she was, laid out on the floor of the wagon, his face unreadable. Then he was gone. In all the months on board ship together, she'd never once heard his name.

Brooker gave a pragmatic shrug, informing the sailors that if any were to die on the way he wouldn't be paying for the next shipment, and fastened the lock on the cage door.

Through the bars of the cage, Djaq watched as the captain of the vessel was paid, and a small leather pouch passed hands to Brooker.

"'ere, what's this?" he asked.

The captain shrugged. "It was on one of the slaves when we caught 'em. Just a bit of glass. How much you want for it?"

Djaq's heart began to thump. It was her father's lens, which through some small twist of circumstance had somehow made the journey across the ocean with her.

Brooker shrugged.

"Could fetch a fair price I suppose."

He handed over a coin that the captain grimaced at, but mention of the poor quality of the slaves silenced him from bartering further.

Brooker tucked the pouch with its precious contents inside his belt, and turned to his property with false joviality.

"Next stop, Treeton Mine!" he cried, and after throwing some strange English food into the cage, he pulled a large drape over them, shrouding the Saracens in darkness. The last thing she saw through the bars as she lay on her back gazing straight up into the grey sky, was the flight of three seagulls sailing out to sea.

* * *

Her breath hitched in her throat painfully as she scrambled through the trees like a hunted rabbit. She had nothing – no sword, no acid, no allies, and she was swiftly running out of options.

She could try to hide, but the trees were sparse here. She could keep running, but she was already functioning on adrenilene alone. Her feet began to lag, her eyes drooped, and the sound of the horse grew ever closer. She had to stop – surely she'd die of exhaustion if she didn't.

She stumbled into an open space, the huge dark figure of a tree looming over her. Struggling toward it, a flicker of recognition crossed her mind. She'd been here before…there was an old campfire, a rocky outcrop, and this magnificent tree, anchored to the ground by roots that were so large they stretched over her head. She crept into a crevice made by two such roots, and curled up into the darkness it provided, hoping her heart wasn't as audible to the horseman as it was to her.

She heard the horse approach and slow, and she pressed herself against the bark of the tree. Except for the steady and ominous thumping of the hooves, all was silent.

As the horse and its rider entered the clearing, her surroundings suddenly crystalised in her mind. This was one of the outlaws' campsite, the very first one she'd come to. She'd fought Much over there…sparred with John just a few hours later…patched up Will's wound while he sat on the very tree stump that her pursuer was now passing. It was hard to see in the darkness, but it seemed that the horseman was gazing at the massive tree before him. He came forward, peering into the darkness, and her heart clenched in her chest when she realised he was making a systematic check of the hiding places that the tree's roots afforded. She'd have to run again, but as she steeled herself, a quiet voice trickled – unbidden - through her mind.

_That's one of the biggest oaks in the forest. It's called the King Oak._

It was the sheltering roots of the King Oak that she was nestled in…but if this was the King Oak, then that meant…

With a gasp of inspiration, she leapt over the huge roots and flung herself toward the forest, hearing the whinny of a horse and a cry of triumph behind her. She thrust her body forward, willing herself to get closer to her target, her eyes flitting from tree to tree.

_This one here – this is an oak. They're the oldest trees in the forest. See the leaves? You can tell the oak by the shape of the leaves._

Her eyes fixed on a tree that looked familiar. Was that it? She hesitated, her footing faltering for just a moment, and she felt the thump of an arrow hit the ground near her feet.

"Halt!" a voice cried. "Or the next one will get you in the kneecap!"

She had no idea whether he was exaggerating his skills or not, but in any case she couldn't win against an arrow. Not yet anyway. She turned to face her opponent, who kept his arrow trained on her as he dismounted. Then, as his eyes raked her tiny form, her lack of defences and the exhausted slump of her shoulders, he smiled and slung his bow across his back, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword instead.

"There's nowhere left to run," he told her as she slowly paced backwards. "It's over."

Disgust was etched in every feature of his face: the piggish eyes, the flared nostrils, the sneering mouth and with a glint of spite, she knew she would relish saying her next words.

"You could take me to Lord Khalid, but it would do you no good. I've already been to see him. He no longer wants me. He's leaving on a ship back to Acre tomorrow. I'm worthless to you now."

Truthfulness rang out in every note of her voice. Geoffrey believed her, and the hot bile of disappointment choked his mind. For a moment he could only look at her in frustration, all those dreams of wealth and security evaporating under the reality of many more years of dutiful service under Guy of Gisbourne's sneer. Disappointed flooded into anger, all of it fixated upon this wretched Saracen runaway before him. His eyes narrowed and his fist clenched his sword's hilt, gently sliding it out of its scabbard.

"Spoiled goods, are you? Well, if you're no use to your own people, you're no use to anyone here. Fallen women are as good as dead anyway. I should put you out of your misery."

He advanced, drawn sword glinting in the moon's light, and Djaq tensed herself, ready to spring. She was so close to the tree – so very near, when suddenly an odd look came over her adversary's face. It was look she had seen only once before, in a desert far away, in what seemed like another lifetime, but this time she recognised it for what it was.

Geoffrey of Weymouth clawed the air and toppled to the ground, and Djaq saw an arrow between his shoulder blades as he fell, pointing up to the night sky like a flagpole. Out of the darkness materialised another figure, and the hesitant smile on her lips faded as she realised her saviour was neither Will nor Allan. This was another Englishman, a stranger with a second arrow notched on his bow, pointed at her. As he moved into the pale light, her heart sank. She knew him now – the man in league with the Saracens. The man she'd threatened with her precious vial of acid – the one that was now hung around his own neck.

"I remember you," he said coldly. "The witch that tried to poison me. All along you were right there – right under my nose, warming the beds of Hood and his men."

Djaq shrank back. All the hours she'd recently spent with Allan had not gone to waste, and now she forced herself to assume a look of timidity and defeat.

"Please – don't hurt me," she said, letting a quaver soften the edge of her voice as she judged the distance between herself and her goal. She cowered before him, her pride prickling in disgust, but knowing that helplessness could get her closer to her last chance. "You heard what I told him. I'm worth nothing now."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Geoffrey here didn't know it, but Lord Khalid wasn't the only one with a bounty on your head. As soon as the sheriff saw how much you meant to his Saracen guest, he let out word that he would also be willing to pay a great amount for your capture. If Khalid could pay that much for a runaway, surely he'd be willing to pay twice as much for a hostage."

The man grinned, and lowered his bow. She wet her lips. Her chance was coming.

"If you are indeed worthless to Khalid, then the sheriff doesn't know. And he won't know till I'm miles away with the reward.

"You know," he said after a pause, something dark and dangerous creeping into his tone. "I've never seen a Saracen woman before."

It was an ugly threat, and she knew exactly what it meant.

Rage, the like of which she'd never known, suddenly coursed through her like a living thing. That she had come all this way, survived slavery and war, fire and saltwater, had her dignity and hair and identity stripped away from her as though they were nothing more than rags, that she'd lost everything that she'd ever held dear – from a family to a patient to a pigeon in a box…that she had made it through all of that only to find herself the object of lust and greed from a man who didn't know that throughout all her suffering she'd managed to keep her honour intact…every particle of her being screamed out in fury, some of which managed to release itself in a strangled war-cry.

She pivoted on the soles of her feet and threw herself toward her target: a nearby oak tree. Behind her she heard the man give a low snarl, and his steps on the forest floor as he raced toward her. She had only seconds.

One hand landed flat on the trunk of the tree, the other grappled wildly for the hollow that Will had carved out long before her coming, as though he'd somehow known she would need it in this time, in this very place. Her hand wrapped around the hilt of something – it didn't matter what – and with all her strength she swung whatever it was out of its hiding place. In a blur she spun around, positioning and bracing the sword, for sword it was, and felt the weight of the man as he crashed into her, pushing her against the tree. A moment passed.

Her gaze was steady, and for a few seconds Mark looked deeply into her eyes as though he was trying to convey something of utmost importance without words. A trickle of blood slowly crept down his chin from the corner of his mouth.

Finally Djaq broke the spell, and with her palms she flung the man away from her own body. He stumbled backwards, a strange gurgling rising in his throat, and the moonlight glinted on the Saracen sword impaled in his stomach. His eyes never left hers, and in the next moment she understood what he was asking of her. Stomach wounds were fatal, but slow to kill.

She rushed forward, grasped the hilt, and with one swift movement, pulled the sword out of his body and sliced it across his throat. The blade was sharp, and did its work. She released her long-held breath as he toppled to the ground, a great weariness falling upon her as though he'd taken the last of her strength with him as he died.

All she could do was stand and look at the dead man, registering that her vial of acid was still draped around her neck. She leaned down and lifted his head in order to reclaim it, trying not to look at the mess she'd made. Slipping it into her pocket, and leaning on the sword she looked up to see Will and Allan watching her from the trees. She wasn't sure how long they'd been there, but judging from Will's dazed expression and the fact that Allan's eyebrows were raised almost to his hairline, it had been long enough to see her dispatch her opponent. She looked up at them, still panting.

She looked down at the dead man again, remembering the words he'd once said to Robin:

_I've heard of you, Locksley, and I'm not some nobleman, leeching off the backs of the poor. I'm just a man being paid to do a job – deliver these goods to the sheriff of Nottingham, so that I can go home and feed my own family._

Had he been telling the truth? She'd probably never know now, but in light of this she knew that although she wasn't sorry she'd killed him, she was indeed sorry that he was dead.

She almost let herself weep, but she called her tears back up into place as Allan and Will came to join her.

"Not being funny, but you didn't kill your Saracen Lord as well, did ya?"

She gave a sigh. "No Allan, I did not."

* * *

Together they carried the dead men further into the forest, laying them out under the trees for burial. Allan and Djaq searched their bodies for any valuables that they might have carried while Will rounded up the horses and tethered them to a nearby tree. Djaq cleaned the bloody Saracen sword in the grass and returned it to its hiding place, happy to reclaim her own short sword from Will. Then it was only a short walk back to the campsite under the King Oak, where the three of them collapsed into a messy pile on the ground, curling up close to each other like an exhausted litter of puppies.

* * *

She lay semi-conscious on the floor of the cage, listening to the strange sounds of the forest: bird song and rustling wind. Brooker knew better than to starve slaves that were needed for hard labour, and though he'd refrained from giving them meat, she could feel her strength gradually returning.

She'd kept track of the days of travelling, thinking that the time in which it took to get from the shore to the mines might come in useful. She rested throughout the day so that she could perform her ablutions in the safety of darkness. She ate whatever was given to her. A thousand escape plans flitted through her mind, each one as unlikely to work as the next, but the ideas she came up with gave her a small degree of hope. She thought nothing beyond being free of Brooker and this hated cage, considering that whatever came after that accomplishment would simply have to take care of itself.

It was in the midst of one such plan – if she could only get her hands on her father's lens she might be able to burn through the ropes that held them all here – that she felt the regular rumble of the cart's progress falter and come to a crashing halt. From outside, she could hear Brooker begin to curse loudly, and she sat up, wondering if her chance had finally come. Quickly she conversed among her fellow captives, telling them to stay alert and ready to move at a moment's notice, and tried to grasp at the drape that kept them all in shadowy gloom. If only she could see where she was…

Getting frantic as the minutes past, knowing that her chances of escape would all but evaporate once she reached the mines, her ears pricked up at the sound of muffled voices. Men's voices, one belonging to Brooker, the other unfamiliar.

She crouched near the side of the cage, her heart beating fast. Something was happening out there…

A moment later, the heavy canvas cloth was whipped back, and she found herself staring into a pair of shocked blue eyes. About an hour later, when the stranger asked for her name, she glared at him and announced:

"Djaq."

* * *

_Can you believe that this is the first time I've used Allan's catchphrase? Well, not that surprising, since I hate catchphrases. However, as catchphrases go, Allan's isn't too bad, and I didn't want to just have it for the sake of having it. But there it is!_

_Djaq's story has almost come full-circle, and I hate to say it, but the next chapter will be the last. But the good news is, you will FINALLY find out what the deal with Khalid is (though I suspect most of you have already guessed)._


	15. The Grave

_Okay everyone, I've made you wait long enough. Here is the final chapter of "A Stranger from the East." I've been heading towards his chapter since July, and to be honest, it really doesn't feel like it's been too much work as I've enjoyed myself so much. Oddly enough, this story is about as long as my thesis - only my thesis took me two years to write! Go figure..._

_Just so you know: the very last sentence of this fic was the very first sentence I wrote for it, and I've been waiting since July for you all to read it!_

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* * *

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**Chapter Fifteen: The Grave**

Djaq awoke slowly, letting herself gradually drift back to consciousness. When she opened her eyes, she realised that the sun had risen and that the morning was late. She pulled herself upright reluctantly, feeling as though she could easily sleep for another few hours, but she'd already noticed that Will and Allan were gone. Rising to her feet she gazed around uncertainly, and then moved passed the King Oak and to the clearing in which she'd stood her ground the night before.

Sure enough, there they were, fussing over the two newly acquired horses. To her relief, she noticed that the bodies of their former owners were gone. She wasn't squeamish, but burying the corpses of the men who had tried to use her secret against her would have perhaps been too much, even for her. Will ushered her over and offered her a handful of berries and nuts that the two of them had no doubt been scrounging for in the forest all morning. She hungrily devoured the meal provided for her, disregarding all the manners that had been instilled in her since her youth, and gave a small sigh when finished.

"There's a stream that way," Allan told her, pointing with a nod of his head, and she eagerly slipped away.

A few minutes later, she crouched at the bank of a small stream and splashed the cold water on her face, letting some of the grime wash away. Then cupping her hands, she drank her fill, her most recent brush with death once again making her relish the senses of her body interacting with the world around her. In this case, the feel of icy water as it slipped down her throat, the bite of it on her tongue, the way it made her teeth ache as its coldness swirled around them.

Finally she sat back, and breathed another deep sigh of relief, shutting her eyes and turning her face to the sun. She felt safe for the first time in a long, long time. Opening her eyes again, she surveyed the scene around her.

The tiny stream gushed over a rocky bed; the banks were covered in soft grass, and the trees around her stood still and sturdy like protective sentinels. It was peaceful, and very, very quiet. Yes – this was a good place.

Carefully she began collecting rocks, taking several large ones scattered at the base of a nearby stone outcropping, and a few tiny ones from the bottom of the stream itself. Finally she had a reasonably-sized pyramid of stones stacked up on the shore that bore the slight resemblance of a gravestone. Kneeling in front of it, she used a collection of pebbles to form the shape of a cross upon the reasonably flat surface of the topmost stone. That done, balanced back on the soles of her feet, feeling as though the memorial was inadequate. There was nothing she could do to the grave to make it Thomas's. No sign or possession or token to dedicate it to him. No proof that a boy called Thomas who had travelled to the Holy Land, remained cloistered in a small room for many months and then died in the desert on his way home had ever existed at all.

Absentmindedly, she pulled a red scarf from her pocket; Khalid's final gift to her. As she fingered it thoughtfully, she cast her mind back to the events of the previous day.

* * *

The door shut quietly behind her, and there he was, not five steps away. He was facing the window that looked out over Nottingham, seated at a small desk and writing in a ledger. He looked exactly as she remembered him: strong, handsome features, hawk-like eyes, dark oiled hair. Just as he'd looked on the long-ago day when her father had first presented her to him.

It didn't seem possible that he was real – that anything from home had survived what she'd escaped. A part of her had believed that everything from her past had been as burnt as thoroughly as her home. That everything was irretrievably lost to her. Yet there he was, real and alive and right in front of her.

He didn't look up, merely glanced in her direction at the sound of the door closing.

"Ah, you're back. Could you bring me some water?"

He spoke in Arabic, and she closed her eyes, letting the sound of her own language dance over her. When she opened her eyes again, he was still writing, and for a moment she simply drunk in the sight of him. He looked utterly out of place here. His foreign clothes, his dark skin, his carefully groomed hair and beard, his glinting jewellery - everything about him looked alien in this small and dismal room. She shook her head sadly. He needed to go home.

"Did you hear me?" he said again as she made no move to obey his order. She was struck dumb as she realised the truth of Allan's incredulous disbelief: that her entire plan up until this point was to simply ask him to go away. Politely. She didn't have the slightest idea of what to say.

Finally he looked up and gazed at her blankly.

"You're not Nasir," he said, and rose from the desk. "Who are you?"

She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged. He approached her, taking in her filthy clothing, her baggy vest; the sword belted around her waist, her dirt-streaked face and cropped head of hair. His mouth fell open, and he too was rendered speechless as realisation dawned upon his face.

"Safiyah?" he finally gasped. She nodded, and for what seemed like a long time he simply looked at her, completely agape.

"How…how did you get here?" he finally managed.

She took a deep breath. Where was she supposed to start? With Will and Allan? Robin Hood? Brooker? Thomas? Her family? She spluttered for a while, her story stumbling on the way to its own telling. She shook her head helplessly. At once his hand was on her shoulders, leading her forward, sitting her down on his chair. The scent of him – musky and spicy and achingly familiar – almost overpowered her.

"Safiyah, Safiyah," he was muttering. "Thank Allah you're safe."

He kneeled at her feet and kissed her left hand while she snuffled into her right. Once she composed herself, she gazed into his face.

"How did you know I was here?" she croaked.

"Bassam," he said simply. "He told me about Thomas – the Crusader you wanted to accompany to Acre."

She winced to hear disapproval in his voice.

"He told me of your plan – that you were to send a pigeon with a message to him once you had completed your task. But when the pigeon returned home without any sign from you, Bassam came to me. There had been rumours of slave-traders on the desert route to Acre. Englishmen taking advance of the war in order to benefit their trade, picking off pilgrims and merchants as they travelled. It was easy to guess what had happened to you. I travelled to Acre myself and heard of a recent slave ship travelling to England. It was the only slave ship that had set out in the past week, so I charted passage with my men and followed you here."

"All that way…" she murmured.

"I found the man responsible for your captivity – a man called Brooker. A few coins passed around the unsavoury men of the docks, and he was easy enough to find. Before he died, he told me of Robin Hood. How he'd freed you and the other Saracens, how he lived in the forest and stole from the rich to give to the poor. I organised a group of men to take tribute to the sheriff, hoping to draw Hood out of hiding, and sure enough, he took the bait."

"You wanted him to help you find me…" she realised.

"I thought that between Hood in the forest and the sheriff in the castle, I'd track you down soon enough. How difficult could it be for a Saracen to hide in a place like this? But I had no idea that Robin would grant you sanctuary with _him_."

"Is he alright?" she asked. "I was separated from him the night you arrived. When your men used black powder."

Khalid gave a small smile.

"Just some scare tactics. I didn't think a little display of our fire-power would do any harm. And Hood is fine. He told me all about you – that you'd been living in the forest quite happily, but that he'd help me find you again."

She felt downcast, her worst fears on Robin's attitude toward her predicament realised. All her work, all her effort, and he still was willing to hand her back to her own people. If it hadn't been for Allan's secret cave, he probably would have found her and escorted her back to Khalid days ago.

"After that I came here," Khalid continued. "Made myself known to the sheriff and sent my men out to the villages to ask for help. Many had seen you already, told me about the work you'd been doing. "The Saracen physician" they're calling you."

He gave her a knowing smile.

"Compared with their own primitive witch-doctors, it's only natural that they should think a few simple Eastern remedies would make you a physician."

She shrugged, knowing it was best not to tell him that she was in fact a physician in every sense of the word.

"But I should have known a woman like you would find her way back to me," he finished, clasping her knees and casting her an awestruck look. "I'll have Nasir head back to the port tonight. Book us passage home. Or…no, let's all go. I'm tired of this place, though probably not as much as you are. We'll all go. I'll send for the servants now."

Despite his cheerful words, he couldn't take his grim-filled eyes off her face or hair: they shocked him terribly. She'd seen this sort of thing before, the way some people would make polite conversation with somebody's terrible wound instead of their face, unable to tear their eyes away from the deformity. He rose to his feet, leaning over to kiss her forehead and then turned to the door, efficient and restless, as she'd always known him to be. There was no other way to tell him, so she simply said it, before things became even worse.

"I'm not going."

He turned. "Of course. You're exhausted. We'll rest here tonight – or, for as long as you need to regain your strength. I'll have some clothes made for you. I'm sure the castle seamstresses can make you a proper garment."

"No," she said again, feeling her voice weaken under the longing she felt – the desire to simply yield herself to his care, to listen to his voice and follow his orders and never have to look after herself ever again.

"No. I'm not going home. I'm staying here. In England."

He looked at her, her words utterly meaningless to him. He could only shake his head, and again she struggled for words. She already knew that she could not explain herself fully – that many of her reasons and ideas would be inconceivable to him. How did she tell him that she was not only no longer Safiyah, but that even the Safiyah he thought he'd known had possessed secret recesses of knowledge and experience that were entirely foreign to his idea of her.

"You're in shock…"

She shook her head.

"No. I'm staying. I can't go with you Khalid."

"Your hair does not bother me. It will grow back. And you will feel better in a veil. There is no shame in this – in disguising yourself as a boy. I understand why you did it."

She shook her head again, fighting tears of frustration and grief, and once again he misinterpreted.

"Are you…did someone…" He took a deep breath. "Safiyah, such things do not matter to me. If you…are no longer a maid, it is not your fault. I will not mention such things after we are married."

He moved close to her and stroked her hair gently, his voice heavy, and for a moment she thought his misguided kindness would kill her.

"It's not that," she told him, looking down at her knees. "I can't marry you."

There was silence.

"Are you in love with Robin Hood?" he asked, and she tried not to roll her eyes. Men it seemed, were often oblivious to the fact that a woman could do more with her life than fall in love. That such things as freedom and responsibility and honour – things that weren't supposed to matter to women – were now the most important concepts that she'd ever known.

"No," she said firmly.

"Then _why_?" he asked, flabbergasted, and for a second she almost smiled, realising why Robin had reminded her so much of him. It was his inability to envision any reason why a woman would not want to marry him.

"Because I must stay here."

There was a short intake of breath laced with impatience.

She took a shuddering breath, casting her mind back to the beginning. She began to speak, starting with Djaq (in a way, it had all begun with Djaq) and the secret swordfights in the hidden courtyard. Her father's frustration with his only son and the consequential lessons to his daughter in the darkened surgery. The arrival of Thomas under the cover of darkness and the secret conversations that had followed. The terrible day in which she was told Djaq would not coming home, and the night that followed soon after in which she knew she would not be returning home either. Then came Bassam's house, the desert and the decision she'd made there, the floating strands of her hair across the dunes, the blade of a knife buried in a white neck, the chaos and whiz of arrows as white men had bourn down on them…but nothing of the slave ship. She would never speak of that again, not to anyone, not ever. The shores of England, Brooker's greed, the trees of Sherwood, and finally her freedom won by a group of ragged, coarse and rather ill-smelling outlaws.

When she was done, he gaped at her, like he'd never before seen her in his life. She touched his face sadly and he brushed her hand aside – not roughly or angrily, but automatically, just as any one would shy away from a stranger's touch. What else could she say? It was her story but not her explanation, and she had told it more for her own sake than for his.

"Thomas was coming back to England to fight for peace. To tell people about the Holy War and that we were not the barbarians everyone thought we were. I failed him by not delivering him home to do this task, and now…for him I must stay and do what I can." She sighed, and twisted her hands in her lap. "Our marriage would have secured an alliance between households. But here…here I can work toward peace between countries."

Khalid shook his head. "That is not for you to do. It's too dangerous…"

"It is my _choice_."

She'd never had a choice before, but in this small room, looking at the last remainder of her past, her last chance to go home, she knew she was making the most important one of her life. She was staying, whether Robin or Khalid liked it or not.

She recalled her youthful confusion at her first meeting with Khalid, knowing him to have everything a woman could possibly want in a husband: wealth, status, charm, looks…and knowing in the next breath that she cared for none of it. She knew she could have loved him eventually, or at least, that Safiyah could have, but that it would have been a love born out of a sense of duty and a desire to please. And Djaq could not live that way anymore.

"You came so far for me – it was more than I deserve. But – I can't be your wife. I'm not able to do that anymore."

There was nothing more to say, but she stayed with him for while longer. Even though her decision was made, she was not eager to leave the room whilst the choice still existed, not wanting to inexorably lock the door just yet on what she'd always known. Finally though, it was time to go. Allan and Will were still waiting for her, and they still had to figure out a way to escape the castle. It didn't occur to her to ask Khalid for help.

To her relief, he did not try to stop her from leaving, and so she turned from passage home forever.

Halfway to the door, he called out suddenly.

"Safiyah – your friend Thomas. Was he rather short? Was he wearing blue Saracen clothes when he died?"

She nodded, baffled.

Khalid nodded sadly, and pulled a red cloth out of his pocket.

"We found his remains on the way to Acre. When my men searched him, we found this. It was draped over his belt, hidden under his clothing. I don't know why I kept it…it seemed familiar somehow. Perhaps it was meant for you. If it was his – maybe you would like to keep it."

He shrugged helplessly, confused at his own sentiment, but she took the offered scarf as though it was precious gold.

* * *

Djaq _had_ wanted it, but not because it had once been Thomas's. It was because it was _hers_ – the remains of the very turban she had worn for so many hours when disguised as Djaq under her father's tutelage. How it had come to be in Thomas's possession, she would never know.

But it was an odd place for Thomas to have kept it – tied to his belt like that. It reminded her of the stories he'd used to tell her in the quiet darkness of her father's surgery. Stories about how a knight would carry his lady's favour into battle in remembrance of her.

Almost as though…as if he'd…that perhaps…

The unforeseen possibility was almost beyond her comprehension, stunning her so much that she raised a shaky hand to her hair. Surely he hadn't guessed. And yet how else would the discarded turban have gone from the sand at her feet to the buckle of his belt?

She settled down, realising with a pang that she would never know the truth now. There were so many things she'd never know. She'd never know the circumstances of her father's death. She'd never know the name of the disfigured slave-trader who had fed her like a child and saved her life on the shores of England. She'd never know whether her mother had died for her sake, or in mindless rage and grief. She'd never know who it was her brother had planned to marry on his triumphant return home. She'd never know why there was war or suffering or grief in the world, or why Allah had chosen to carry her all this way to fight in this particular battle against poverty and pestilence and corruption.

Looking down on the makeshift grave and tucking the scarf into a crevice between two of the rocks, she promised herself that _she_ would be proof of his existence, following on in his wishes and working toward a peace that she knew was possible, for it had existed between the two of them.

Here she would stay and fight for all their sakes. Unbeknownst to her family during their lifetimes, they had each given her the tools she would need to be of use to Robin Hood's cause. She was worth nothing back home – her father's skills as a physician, her brother's use of the sword, even her face would have to be hidden away forever. But here the gifts that her family had bestowed on her could be used in the struggle for peace, and in doing so she could honour their memory – make them live on every time she stitched a wound or dispatched a guard. Maybe even one day she'd get the chance to use her mother's charms and graces to their full effect. Maybe.

* * *

Allan and Will were mounted on the horses when she returned, play-arguing about which one had laid claim to the best mount. She approached, sharing in their light-heartedness, till she realised that she'd have to ride behind one of them in the impending search for the other outlaws. Grudgingly – and knowing she'd feel like a sack of potatoes stuck behind one of them for what could be hours on end – she headed toward Will who was closer.

But before she reached him, Allan manoeuvred his mare in front of Will and reached down to grab her hand. Since it hardly made a difference, she accepted it, and let herself be hoisted up behind him, looping her arms around his waist.

"Horses will make quick work of finding the others!" he told them both cheerfully. "Much better than traipsing around a forest all morning!"

Will simply grunted in response, and Djaq started at his surly demeanour, wondering at the sudden change from the laughter of a few moments before. _Oh well_, she thought as Allan began to canter toward the forest path, _he's obviously not a morning person._

* * *

As the day wore on and the horses carried the three of them across the forest, Djaq began to drowse a little, unintentionally letting her forehead drift onto Allan's shoulder. It was more than physical exhaustion, it was strength of her mind and spirit that still had to be reclaimed, but till that happened, a small part of her was glad that she could simply let herself be carried for a while.

In her strange half-sleep she heard snatches of her mother's lullaby, but it was only when the horse below her made a slight lunge over a hillock – causing her to jolt upright – that she realised the sound of the tune wasn't coming from her own mind. Ahead of her, Allan was humming softly to himself, his blue eyes raking the trees as they travelled. Startled, she tried to catch a better glimpse of his expression. Was he using the song on purpose, or was he simply echoing the remnant of a memory he didn't know he had?

She risked a glance at Will, the question in her eyes, and Will looked back at her impassively for a moment before shaking his head. Allan had no idea what he was doing, and a silent agreement passed between the two of them that they wouldn't embarrass him by telling him the source of the song in his head.

* * *

Finally, the three travellers arrived at the outlaw's westernmost campsite, crashing into the small clearing and causing Much to nearly jump out of his skin. Djaq cast a glance over the unfamiliar surroundings, taking in a now delighted-looking Much, a relived John (who quickly turned a suspicious glare to Will and Allan) and an amused Robin – as well as Khalid and his assortment of travelling companions and servants, milling about the clearing.

Her heart began to pound as she took in the sight. The Saracens were clearly getting ready to leave, their horses saddled and their bags slung over shoulders or pack animals. Judging from their distance from the others, Robin and Khalid had been having a quiet discussion, and as she dismounted, Robin gave her a speculative glance. Surely Khalid hadn't come to Robin to ask him for his help in forcing Djaq to return with him. Surely Robin wouldn't insist that she leave for the Holy Land. She unconsciously place a hand on her sword, bracing herself – but in the next moment she was pounced upon by Much, who shook her shoulders gleefully.

"I was worried!" he cried, and then – realising his own excitement – dropped his hands and moved back. "Not much though. A little."

She gave him a small smile, but quickly turned an anxious look to the approaching Robin and Khalid. Once again she was struck by the strangeness of Khalid's presence here – somehow he looked even more out of place in the forest than he did at the castle – and a thousand memories of her girlhood suddenly swarmed before her eyes. For so long, Safiyah's only goal had been to make this man fall in love with her, exercising all her charm and appeal on him in the hopes of a marriage proposal. Her father had been pleased when Khalid had approached him with a proposition, her mother almost beside herself with pride and joy. And now…now all she wanted was to be treated like a man.

"I'm not going," she said suddenly, more to Robin than to Khalid.

Robin gave a small laugh, Khalid shook his head sadly.

"I did not come here for that. I came to say goodbye to Robin and to thank him for his courtesy."

"Oh."

She shuffled her feet, embarrassed. After a few moments, Khalid cleared his throat.

"May I speak?" he asked her, and drew her away from the others. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Allan and Will watching them closely. Then Allan turned to Robin and began to speak, no doubt telling him where they'd been for the past few days. Will kept his eyes on Djaq as Robin took his turn in speaking, no doubt informing them who Khalid was exactly, and what he'd meant to Djaq.

When Khalid had her alone, he turned his helpless eyes to her.

"Are you _sure_, Safiyah?"

She took a deep breath. In saying goodbye to him, she was saying goodbye to her homeland, to safety and security, to a future of prosperity, wifehood and perhaps, one day, children. A part of her knew that she would eventually want those things. Not yet, but eventually, when she felt her task in this country had been completed. And if she didn't go with him now, she might very well loose that chance forever.

_There's still time_, a little voice said, but her feet stood as firm as the roots of an oak. Here is where she would stay. Back there, she'd been a physician when it pleased her father, a woman when it pleased her mother, a sparring partner for her brother's sake. Then she'd become a slave, and become nothing at all. But now, having made her first real choice in the way her life was to be lived, she had a chance to find out who she really was. Though she was no closer to discovering who she was than she was at the start of her journey, she knew that here she'd have a better chance of finding out.

The thought was as exhilarating and terrifying as having her unveiled face looked upon by five Englishmen every day, all of whom knew that she was a woman.

"Yes, I'm sure," she told him.

"But…but…they're _English_," he spluttered, flailing in hands in a final show of disbelief.

It was those words more than anything that assured her that she'd made the right decision. He didn't understand her, that much was clear. She hadn't expected him to. She doubted anyone except herself would understand. But when she shook her head for the last time, Khalid finally turned to his men, yelling out commands, and moved toward Robin to shake his hand and bid him farewell.

A few minutes later the Saracens moved out of the clearing for the forest road, and the port that waited at the end of it. Khalid looked back at her once more before disappearing for good; regret, sorrow, and finally total incomprehension on his face.

She sighed deeply, and felt Robin move up to her side.

"Are you sure?" asked Robin quietly, echoing Khalid's sentiment.

"Yes," she told him. "Safiyah is dead."

"Who's Sophie?" asked Allan from behind them, effectively spoiling the moment.

She chose to ignore him. Will could explain it to him later.

"I was…I was afraid that maybe you would make me go back with him," she admitted, feeling it was best to tell Robin the truth.

His blue eyes looked startled, and he placed a hand on her shoulder, speaking loud enough so that all the outlaws could hear.

"I'd never do that. You're free here Djaq – free to come or go as you please. You should have come to me instead of gallivanting off around the country. I would have made sure Khalid understood your intentions, and I certainly wouldn't have let him drag you home against your will, if that is what you were afraid of."

"I…I…didn't think of that," she said weakly, and cringed as Robin's words hit home and Will and Allan's expressions darkened. It had just dawned on them that their entire escapade had been completely and utterly pointless. She managed to give them a guilty smile, and was desperately thankful when Robin clapped his hands heartily, bringing them all to attention.

"Well, it's nearly midday and we haven't rattled any cages yet! A little bird told me that the sheriff has a consignment of silver coming in on the North Road, and we still have the Nottingham drop-offs to make."

They scrambled around the campsite, fetching cloaks and weapons, listening as they did so to Robin's latest commands. Robin and John were off to the North Road, Much and Djaq would see to the distribution of money to the poor and Will and Allan were instructed to take the horses to Nottingham in the hopes of fetching a fair price for them. When Robin called out "let's go lads!" she straightened, finally knowing what the word meant and happy that she was a part of it.

Much bounced into step next to her as they set off into the forest, telling her that she looked unaccountably cheerful for someone who had a hard bed and no food to look forward to, and then demanding a full account of what exactly she'd been doing since last he saw her. As she began, casting her mind back to the night of the ambush in which she'd heard Khalid's regal voice floating through the darkness as if out of a dream, she was aware of Allan and Will falling into step behind her.

They were possibly still mad at the needless danger she'd put them in and the wild goose chase she'd led them on, but as she considered this, she allowed herself a small but proud smile. At least one thing had gone according to plan. After everything she'd put them through, neither one of them would ever fall in love with her now.

_The End._

* * *

_Well guys, that's it! I hope you found this was a satisfying ending; the end of a story is always the hardest to write because you know there's a lot of expectation riding on it. The ideas here was to give closure on her past, whilst pointing out that in many ways, this is only the beginning of her journey. _

_Big thank yous to the following readers for leaving some lovely comments in their wake:_

_KeepingAmused_

_Wenrom31 (especially for all her enthusiasm, and nice long reviews)_

_SereneTeaCup_

_El Gringo Loco_

_The North Wyn_

_Emily Scarlett-Cullen_

_Soulprovider_

_City Light Lyrics_

_Derry_

_Also thanks to those who put this story on alert:_

_Arael Lassie_

_Bowandarrow8i8_

_Casperace13_

_MaddieStJ_

_bkwrm_


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